


The Shadow

by Rhianne



Category: CI5: The New Professionals
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 19:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 71,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhianne/pseuds/Rhianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Chris have to deal with their blossoming feelings for each other while trying to bring down a dangerous international terrorist organisation in the Middle East.</p><p>Co-written with Brenda (who is not on AO3).<br/>Originally this was going to be the first of three fics, and while this fic is complete, please be aware there are unfinished plot threads that would have been continued in a sequel that was, ultimately, never written. I think this story stands on its own, but ymmv.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shadow

Chris

There are bottles everywhere, all of them empty, and I'm half waiting for Sam to make some comment or other. He hasn't said a word yet, which I'm quite surprised about, but then since he helped empty at least half of them he probably wouldn't dare. 

Not that it would make any difference if he did, I'm still not clearing them away. Probably couldn't stand up straight if I wanted to - which I don't.

We started on the sofa, but at some point during the course of the evening seem to have ended up sitting on the floor. 

Oh, that's right. The sofa was too high, made me dizzy. The floor seemed like a much safer bet. Somewhere along the line, Sam must have agreed with my logic, because he's sitting beside me as well. 

Sam's gesturing wildly, which really doesn't help, since I can already see two of him, and I'm not quite sure which one to focus on. He's trying to explain something, though I don't have the slightest clue what. I've reached the part of the evening where everything seems loud, but I can't actually understand anything. 

Knowing Sam, he's probably trying to improve my knowledge of culture, which he does periodically. Just as I try to introduce him to the concept of entertainment, which generally involves watching countless hours of junk TV. We both humour each other, and I know that the attempt is pretty much useless, but watching Sam squirm through an hour of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the like never fails to amuse me. Sam's reaction on being introduced to Big Brother was priceless.

I giggle, and both Sam's break off whatever they're saying to stare curiously at me. 

I wonder how many of me he can see? Knowing Sam he's being ever so restrained and sensible and is only slightly tipsy, whereas I'm well on the way to a five star hangover. Then again, he's been matching me drink for drink, and I'm pretty certain I can handle alcohol better than him. I'm not conceited, but two years in a SEAL team involved frequent 'morale boosting sessions', whereas from what I can tell Sam worked more or less alone in MI6, and drinking by yourself is never much fun.

Sam is still watching me, with a small smile playing on his lips. "You still with me, Chris?"

I grin back, pointing my beer bottle vaguely in his direction. "The trouble with you, Sam," I begin, "is that you can't handle your drink."

He raises an eyebrow, still smiling. "Is that so?"

"Yes," I nod decisively, but that starts the room swaying again, so I stop. That’s funny, I didn't think you got earthquakes in Britain. 

I settle instead for taking another swig of Bud, but I can't seem to get anything out of the bottle. Huh? I shake it and try again. 

Still nothing.

I sigh. There's no other explanation. It's a conspiracy.

Sam taps me on the shoulder. "It's empty, Chris."

Oh.

I frown at Sam, before glancing at the other bottles surrounding us. When we started drinking I brought out a load of opened bottles to save trips to the kitchen, but I can't see any full ones. 

Have I really drunk that much?

Sam chuckles at my morose expression, before pouring himself another glass of wine. Only half the glass, mind. Apparently it's not done to fill up a wine glass.

It's quite unfair. If he drank like normal people I could steal some of his, but you won't get me touching that stuff. 

I hold out the empty bottle to him. "Sam..." I begin, with my best lost-dog impression. This never fails...

Rolling his eyes, he takes another mouthful of wine before placing the glass on the floor and getting to his feet. I note with some satisfaction that it takes him longer than usual, and he doesn't seem quite his usual graceful self. He even stumbles over one of the beer bottles, sending it clattering along the floor, and I snigger as he steadies himself on the table.

Throwing me one of his 'looks', he wanders into the kitchen and pulls out half a dozen bottles of Bud from the fridge before starting to rifle through the drawers. It's a good ten minutes before he admits defeat in the labyrinth that is my kitchen and moves back into the doorway.

"I give up. Chris, where's the bottle opener?"

I peer at him through the gathering mist. My eyes must be getting tired. I shake my head, being careful not to do it too quickly.

"I lost it," I reply. "Just bring them here."

Looking curious, he gathers up the bottles and comes and sits back down next to me.

Taking one of them from him, I lean over and drag one of the dining table chairs a bit closer. The chair keeps moving, and it takes a couple of tries before I get hold of it.

I jam the bottle against the bottom of the chair before hitting the base of the bottle, forcing it down. The metal cap skitters away across the floor and I turn back to Sam, holding up the opened bottle proudly.

He laughs and shakes his head, but says nothing. This is a definite improvement, since a few months back he'd have made some comment about my cleaning habits. I'm obviously having a good affect on him.

Waiting for him to pick up his wine again, I clink my bottle against the glass and propose a toast.

"To Malone."

Sam looks at me as if I've gone crazy.

"Malone? What do you want to toast him for?"

"He did give us the day off tomorrow, Sam. I don't know about you, but I won't be fit to work in the morning."

Sam glances at the empty wine bottles around him before grinning ruefully. "No, me neither."

I nod in satisfaction, "Just as it should be."

"Ooh," something occurs to me. "You and Backup still on for the meal tomorrow night?"

Sam stops smiling and nods. "As far as I know. Is Kirsten still coming?"

Kirsten is my latest girlfriend. We've been going out for a few weeks on and off, though work has been pretty hectic, so I haven't been able to see her as much as I'd have liked.

"Yep," I grin happily. "That's why it's a double date, Sam."

He sighs and then nods again. The wine must be getting to him more than I thought.

"Is she the one, then?" he asks.

"Kirsten?" He nods again, and I think for a minute before shaking my head. "Nah, I don't think so. She's nice enough, but she's a bit of a flake." I don't mean that nastily, but it's true. She's attractive, and fun, but it's not much more than a fling for either of us, which is just what I'm looking for. As far as I'm concerned, my Miss Right died with Teresa. If someone came along that I really fell for, it wouldn't be a bad thing. I'm just not actively looking for her.

Sam smiles again.

"So why aren’t you seeing anyone?" I continue. Sam usually runs through girlfriends faster than I do, and yet over the past couple of months he seems to have been single. "The old Curtis charm losing its magic, is it?"

If looks could kill…

"I haven't met anyone I've been interested in, that's all."

Now that's certainly not true. Sam and I spend a fair amount of our free time together, and he's well known for flirting with anything in a skirt that's remotely pretty. Even if we haven't seen anyone drop dead gorgeous for a while, that's never stopped Sam from flirting. Likes to keep in practise. 

Now I think about it though, he hasn't been flirting much lately, either. It's almost as if he's lost interest somehow.

I'm watching him curiously as I try to figure this out, and as soon as he realises what I'm doing, I can see the shutters come down. What is it? What would make Sam clam up so quickly? Suddenly I smile. I've got it.

"You're interested in someone! " I exclaim. Sam starts and glances up at me. "That's it, isn't it? That's why you're not just casually dating anymore. You're already interested in someone else. Who is it? Someone at work?"

Turning away, Sam drinks down half his wine in one go and tries to avoid my gaze. Now I know I'm right.

"Who is she? Rebecca?"

Sam snorts and shakes his head mutely.

I shift closer to him, trying to work him out and shaking the cobwebs from my brain. This isn't just lust, is it. I've seen Sam when he's had the hots for someone, and he usually jokes about it with me, then turns on the Curtis charm and wins her over. Or at the very least, he'd be seeing someone else until he was ready to make his move.

But then, even his relationships aren't much more than flings. In the time we've been partnered, neither of us have got involved in anything serious. Sam's silence tells me everything I need to know. Whoever she is, he's interested in more than a fling, because he's nervous even just talking to me. 

"You've really fallen for someone, haven't you Sam." I say softly. He glances up sharply, and obviously hadn't seen I'd moved closer, because he jumps and shuffles away slightly.

"Have you told her how you feel?" 

It's a few seconds before he shakes his head again.

"You should, you know. You've nothing to lose."

He laughs bitterly. "You don't understand," he replies coldly.

He's right, I don't. I can see that he might be afraid of ruining a friendship, but to be honest, Sam isn't really that close to anyone at CI5 except Backup and me. Somehow, I just can't see him being interested in Tina. She's great, but she's just not his type. I don't know of any other friendship that he might value enough to ignore his feelings like this. It's obviously making him miserable. 

I hate seeing him like this.

I put a hand on his arm, trying to offer some small comfort. "Who is it, Sam?" I ask quietly.

He looks at me again, and for a second I can see real pain in his eyes. He leans towards me, and I move closer as well, thinking he's going to whisper her name to me. For a few seconds he just looks at me, and then suddenly he's moving closer still. 

I can still see the pain in his eyes, but now there's something else there as well.

Desire?

I find myself leaning forward to meet him, and for a brief second I allow my eyes to close before I realise what I'm doing, and pull away sharply.

Sam also stops moving, and his eyes widen as I stare at him, trying to work out what's going on. Was he really about to kiss me?

And was I really going to kiss him back?

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

I hate being drunk. Don't know what came over me, really.

Let's put it down to relief that we're both still in one piece, that I'm tired, and that it's good to just be in Chris' company. It always is, but I'm careful – very careful – not to give anything away.

Usually.

He looks happy tonight, which is always guaranteed to have a weird effect on me. 

No, that's stupid. He has a weird effect on me most of the time. Whether he's happy, sad, drunk, sober or busy narrowly avoiding getting blown to bits, shot to pieces or simply sacked for pissing Malone off once too often.

One of these days I'll have to come clean, I think in moments like this. Then the alcohol's effects fade and I tell myself he'd either thump me or laugh at me or (no, that should be an and/or, I think), not to mention running off to Malone and demand to be paired with somebody who has normal sexual inclinations.

He just *would* have to start on all this stuff about love and caring, of course. And it's nearly my downfall. 

It's so tempting to admit how I feel, though, when I can see the genuine concern there. The way he's frowning slightly, watching my face. 

I can't. Mustn't. So I have to run.

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

"Sam!"

It's no use. The door slams shut as Sam disappears into the night, and I'm left shouting into an empty room. I'm on my feet, having scrambled upright as soon as he pulled away and started to bolt, but the room is already spinning around me, and I half sit, half fall back down onto the sofa.

I can't take my eyes off the stairs, expecting any minute that Sam is going to reappear with that sly smile of his, claiming that the whole thing was a joke. Only nothing happened, so he has nothing to joke about. 

Did I just imagine that Sam was going to kiss me? But if he wasn't, why did he leave so suddenly, with barely a goodbye?

And why was I quite prepared to kiss him back?

God, my head hurts. Already, and I don't think the hangover has even kicked in yet. I'm going to feel like shit in the morning. So is Sam. Considering all the empty wine bottles scattered around, I'm fairly certain that he matched me for drinks tonight. Maybe that explains what just happened. He was just drunk. We both were.

Oh, shit…

Sam can't have gone. He can't drive. There's no way in hell that he's anywhere near the drink-drive limit, let alone under it. If he's driving home, then either he'll get stopped and lose his job, or he'll crash.

Oh, shit.

I drag myself off the sofa and stumble over to the window, breathing an audible sigh of relief when I see that his car is still there. It's empty though, and there's no sign of Sam anywhere in the street, so he must have walked away. I'd rather he hadn't left in the first place, but if he had to run out on me, then at least this he'll make it home in one piece.

Almost on autopilot, I walk unsteadily into the kitchen and pour myself a large glass of water. Apart from wanting to avoid the mother of all hangovers tomorrow morning (it’s eleven thirty, and while Sam would probably tell me that morning begins when the clock hits midnight and that half an hour either way makes little difference, as far as I'm concerned it's not morning till I've been to sleep and had at least three cups of coffee), I need a clear head to think this through.

The crazy thing is, nothing actually happened tonight. He came over, we had a few drinks, talked for a while, and then he left. Nothing that hasn't happened a thousand times before, and yet I can't stop feeling that something fundamental changed tonight. Something that we might not be able to ignore.

Even the way he got physically close to me tonight is nothing new, and I really don't know why it bothered me so much - or why he reacted the way he did. We've both been drunk before, so drunk we had to cling to each other just to keep upright, so him leaning across to me shouldn't have been anything unusual.

And yet it was. I know it was different, and even if I hadn't, the way Sam just jumped up and left with nothing more than a mumbled goodbye is as good as a ten foot tall neon light over my head, screaming at me.

Oh, fuck. I wish I could work out what was going on. Am I just being paranoid? Is this just one long drunken ramble, which will seem ridiculous in the morning when I've sobered up?

I'm damned if I know.

Moving away from the kitchen units, I wander slowly over to the window and stare out at the cemetery. Something metallic glints at me out the corner of my eye, and I glance over to find Sam's car keys, complete with Interpol key ring (and I never did find out how he got that little gem), staring at me from the top of the TV next to his wallet.

Fantastic. 

Apart from reassuring me that Sam isn't going to drink-drive and crash, it means that he'll have to come back to get his keys. 

Which makes it all right. 

He has to come over tomorrow to pick up his car, and even better, I've got his keys. If I'm still convinced there's something going on when I see him in the morning, he's not getting the keys back until we've dealt with it.

Childish? Yep.

Do I give a shit?

Of course not.

Happy with my decision, (it's not much of one, perhaps, but it at least gives me an illusion of control), I decide to get a reasonable night's sleep and stroll contentedly into the bedroom.

I choose not to wonder why I carry Sam's keys into the room with me, placing them on the bedside table next to Theresa's photo.

As for my reaction to the thought that Sam was going to kiss me?

No comment.

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

Running away isn't my style. But neither is losing control like that. 

I reach in my pocket, anxious to get away. Feel for my car keys then change my mind. Getting arrested for drunken driving would be the icing on the cake. But just as I'm congratulating myself on being sensible and hauling out my mobile to call a cab, it occurs to me that the familiar contact of fingers on metal is missing. That's for the simple reason that my means of entrance to car and flat are now sitting atop Chris' television, where I've left them, along with my wallet.

For somebody who works in intelligence, this is less than impressive. Fortunately, my pockets reveal a couple of pound coins and a glance at my watch confirms that the tube won't close for another half hour. It's a ten-minute walk, but I can make it easily.

Amazing how my mind deals to rapidly and efficiently with the situation at hand, isn't it. Or at least half of my brain is doing so, dredging up contingency plans while the rest of it is full of that image of Chris, his face a couple of inches from my own.

I'm holding my breath, I realise after the first hundred yards or so. Bad habit, that and one that usually only creeps up with me when the adrenaline's flowing and I'm running into a gun or something. Or watching Karl's murderers' car going up in a ball of fire.

Better take in a few gulps of air, I decide. 

I trudge along, only half-aware of the rain at first until it starts running down my neck.

So how are you going to deal with this, superhero? 

Nothing to deal with, I reassure myself. People do strange things when they're drunk. Chris will understand that, won't he?

Collar up and head down, now, I'm staring down at the footpath, glistening in the light of the street lamps. Nice square paving stones, just like the ones on the way to school when I was a kid. You had to get your stride just right to avoid stepping on the cracks. Christopher Robin – or was it Pooh – said that if you did, the bears or the dragons or something would come. Me, I always decided that if I got it wrong my Mum wouldn't get well.

I must have stood on a lot of cracks, because she never did. 

Unconsciously, I adapt my rhythm to place one foot after another in even, measured strides. Funny, really - when I was a kid the distance was too long for comfort and now it's too short. My toes creep perilously close to the edge of the square over and over again, and I do an awkward double-step to make sure I don't transgress and invite catastrophe.

If I touch the crack, I'll have to come clean to Chris. 

This works for a while, and I'm working rather well on my little speech of excuse for the next day.

Sorry I left so fast, Chris. Must be all that control stuff you're accusing me of, right? The car? Oh, didn't want to come back and disturb you, we both got a bit pissed, hey? So I got the tube. 

Is he really going to fall for that? 

No, he isn't. Left foot.

Yes, he is. He was more drunk than I was. Right foot.

But what was that expression in his eyes? Left foot.

It was almost as if…

The pause as I re-examine the expression in my partner's eyes during that fleeting spark of desire, confusion and shame is disastrous.

My right foot, taking on a life of its own, lands fair and square on the insidious black line.

This brings me to a complete halt for a second or two and I can actually feel my heartbeat speeding up.

I have to tell him how I feel about him now.

Of course I don't. It's a silly, childish game. It would ruin everything. 

Purposely, I accelerate and refuse to even look down as I head for the entrance to the tube.

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

The next morning dawns bright and early. Too bright, and too early. It takes me a while to wake up, mainly because I pull the covers over my head and try to pretend dawn hasn't broken yet.

This, of course, doesn't work, and the strenuous movement simply reminds me in painful, Technicolor detail just how much I had to drink last night.

Ugh. Just kill me. Please.

I wallow in hung over self-pity for a while, lamenting alcohol, sunshine and early mornings in equal measures till I finally cave in, and force myself out of bed in search of coffee. 

Something I miss about sleeping alone, actually, is not having someone to bring me coffee in the mornings. A ridiculous little detail to dwell on perhaps, but knowing how stupid it is doesn't stop me from being wistful for the days when I had someone to share things like this with.

Switching on the coffee machine (a gift from God, as far as I'm concerned), I squint as I pull the blinds down, and a soft beige light floods the room. Much better than sunlight anyway. Shutting the blinds always leaves me feeling slightly cut off from the world, especially without the peaceful view of the graveyard to look out over, but sometimes that feeling of being in a cocoon is just perfect. 

Particularly when you've got a horrendous hangover, haven't yet had your morning dose of caffeine, and slept restlessly all night.

Gingerly making my way back to the coffee machine, I manage to stay upright long enough to pour coffee in the cup and add half the contents of the sugar bowl before heading into the other room and curling up in the armchair.

In the harsh light of day, (and isn't it just), what happened last night seems oddly distant. 

Did I honestly imagine it? Was Sam really just leaning over to whisper something to me? Hell, maybe he was, and he saw my reaction and was disgusted. After all, if I was straight, and my bisexual partner all but offered himself to me on a plate, I'd be freaked out about it as well.

Particularly if my partner, who I'm supposed to trust, hadn't even seen fit to mention that he was bisexual in the first place.

Shit, and I bug Sam about all that control freak stuff. If he had any idea how much I shut away certain facets of myself, he'd probably have a heart attack. But what else am I supposed to do? 

I've seen it happen to people I care about, when they've come out as being gay. Even though their friends swear that it doesn't matter, that it wouldn't change a thing, it does. With the best will in the world, Sam would never have been able to stop himself from wondering whether I'd ever had feelings for him, even if I lied through my teeth and swore I wasn't interested. And it's so hard to hide, sometimes, that my only saving grace is that he doesn't know, and wouldn't even consider it a possibility.

However hard it is to work with him every day with these goddamn feelings running around inside me, there's no way I'd ever tell him. Most of the time I even manage to lie to myself, and can almost forget for days, even weeks at a time that I find men just as attractive as women.

People are always impressed at how good I am at going undercover, at immersing myself in a role. I wonder if they'd be so impressed if they knew that it was because I spend my entire life playing a role, even when I'm off duty?

Now that would be guaranteed to land me on a psychiatric couch somewhere in the bowels of CI5.

I just need to find out what Sam thought about last night, why he left so suddenly, and if necessary, I'll deny everything. We both had so much to drink that I'm sure I can convince him black was white if I have to.

Just like last night, I have some sort of sense of achievement, even though it's over something as ridiculous as deciding what my next move is going to be. I can deal with this. It's not the first time I've found myself interested in a guy that I work with, so I just have to suppress it again. It was easy in the Navy, because men were men, and it just wasn't done. God, now I sound like my father…

Besides, I had Teresa then, and my latent bisexuality just wasn't a problem.

But it's been years since she died, and there's been no one special since her, even though I haven't exactly been celibate. The crazy thing is, I've never actually had sex with another man. Even though I know I'm bisexual and have been interested in men almost as long as I can remember, I’ve always tried to ignore it...at least since Paul.

And if I have any say in the matter, that's how it's going to stay.

Decision made I relax back in the chair, and while still battling with the dregs of a hangover, (though not as bad as it was when I woke up thanks to the wonder of caffeine) find myself dozing off.

The couple of hours sleep that I get does more good than the eight hours of tossing and turning I had last night, and I wake up feeling refreshed and ready to face the world.

Part of that, of course, means opening the blinds to let the world back in, and I feel ridiculously cheerful as I do so, particularly since I don't have to go to work today. Sam managed to charm Malone into giving us a day off in reward for a job well done (as if it's ever anything less), for which I'm eternally grateful. Dragging myself into work this morning would have been more than I could handle. 

It's too much to hope that my good mood will last for long, but I had hoped that the bubble would last longer than twelve seconds.

The first thing I notice about the outside world is that the sun is still much too bright, considering it's the morning after the night before, so to speak. The second thing is that Sam's car isn't where it was last night. It only takes three steps to reassure myself that Sam's keys are still on the bedside table where I left them. 

At least he didn't sneak into my apartment while I was asleep and take them. But that means, that either the car has been stolen, or he's come and hotwired the car rather than face me and ask for his keys.

Shit. 

Is he that disgusted with my behaviour last night that he can't even bring himself to face me?

All the insecurities that I'd successfully managed to push out of my mind during the course of the morning come flooding back, and I sink back down into one of the chairs, thinking furiously, and fighting against an irrational panic.

I can't have screwed things up this badly, surely? Maybe I can talk to him, apologise for last night and pretend I was drunk or something. Well, I was drunk, but maybe I can pretend that was the reason for letting my guard down.

No, don't be stupid. If I try that then knowing my luck he won't have noticed anything, and I'll just be dropping myself in it even further.

It suddenly dawns on me just how pathetic all this makes me sound. Sitting alone and miserable in my apartment, wallowing in self-pity because I can't bring myself to ignore my feelings for my straight partner.

Less than pathetic.

But sitting here worrying about it isn't going to be of use to anyone. If Sam is disgusted by last night, then short of apologising (which I kind of need to do in person), I don't have a whole lot of say in the matter.

Besides, if I'm blowing this out of all proportion and Sam is at this moment quite happily going about his business without a care in the world, then I'll have just spent half the morning winding myself up into a knot for no reason at all.

So all I have to do is make sure that I'm perfectly in control whenever Sam's around. It really doesn't matter what I think when I'm off-duty and alone, but at work, and when we're out together, Sam isn't going to think that anything has changed.

Unfortunately, this new resolve of mine is going to be tested quite thoroughly this evening, since we're supposed to be going out on this double date with Kirsten and Backup. Sam's idea, this one, and one that seemed like a pretty good idea at the time. It still would be, actually, if nothing had happened last night. I've always enjoyed spending time with Sam, and in a sense he's right – not that I'll ever admit it. Kirsten is fun to be around, and the sex is good, but her conversation can be a little limiting sometimes. Having Sam (and Backup) around to chat to when she dries up is a great improvement on the evening's entertainment.

But that's not the point, is it? Admitting that I enjoy Sam's company just as much and probably more than I do my actual girlfriend is probably not something I want to do, really. Even to myself. 

This would be a good time to change the subject, I think.

I glance around the flat, looking for something to take my mind off of Sam, and see Sam's wallet, still on top of the television where he left it last night. Which reminds me – I should probably make sure that tonight is still on, so that I can call Kirsten and make the arrangements.

Anyway, unless Sam is going to spend all day hotwiring his car, he's going to need his keys back at some stage. And his wallet.

Standing up briskly, I aim for a confident aura. True, there's nobody here to appreciate it, but it never hurts to practice. Now, if I'm going to call him, then I need my phone. I stride over to the table, but stop short in confusion when I realise that the phone isn't in its cradle. Now where did that go?

The confidence wanes slightly as it takes me at least fifteen minutes to find the damn thing, but I finally see the very tip of the aerial peering out from under the sofa. Pouncing on it, I pick it up and turn it on, and promptly wince and toss it down on the sofa again as a high-pitched squeal tries to deafen me.

Shit. Now I remember why Sam's always on at me to put the damn thing back its place. That's the only way to charge the battery. I guess tidiness does have its advantages.

Fine, it doesn't matter – that's what mobiles are for. That, happily, is in the pocket of my coat where it's supposed to be, and I hit the speed dial with one hand as I head into the kitchen to make more coffee. After all, it's been at least an hour.

It rings tinnily into my ear a couple of times, and I start to wonder whether Sam might actually be out. Or maybe, I suddenly think in fear, he's just not answering the phone, because he doesn't want to talk to me.

Oh, hell.

Caught up in my own fears, I'm about to hang up when the phone stops ringing, and Sam's voice reaches my ears.

"Hello?"

"Hey Sam, it's me." I've never actually felt the need to say who 'me' is, and Sam has never asked. I mean, we work together every day, of course he knows the sound of my voice by now.

There's a few seconds of telling silence at the other end of the phone, but surprisingly it doesn't bother me. I might worry myself into an early grave when I'm alone, but around other people I've always been able to project this façade of calm self-assurance, which certainly helps in my job. So now that I'm actually talking to Sam (or not talking, in this case), I feel totally in control.

Finally he manages to speak, "Hi Chris."

Well that's informative. Okay, here goes – if he thinks I'm going to let him get away with coming to get his car this morning without stopping by, he's in for a surprise.

"I just wanted to find out what the arrangements are for tonight. Are we still going out?"

Another slight pause.

"Of course we are. Why, don't you want to?"

"Oh, I'm still up for it. But since I have your house keys, car keys and wallet here, I did wonder how you were going to actually drive tonight."

Now he sounds embarrassed. It's a childish victory, but it certainly makes me feel better.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry about that mate, I must have had more to drink last night than I realised."

"So how did you manage to drive the car away from here this morning? Don't tell me you hotwired the damn thing."

"Oh, no. I've got a spare set of car keys here. I just used them." 

Oh. Of course, I should have realised that Sam the Control Freak was bound to have a spare set of keys available for such emergencies. Though he still must have had to break in to his own house last night, which I find highly amusing. Particularly since those locks are supposed to be lockpick proof. (Even the electronic ones.) So how he did it without setting off every alarm at HQ would make a nice story, particularly if he was drunk. A bit like trying to sneak into the house when your parents are asleep upstairs and you're late. I always thought that Malone would make a great disapproving father. I'll have to ask him about it one day. Sam, that is, not Malone. Reckless at times I may be, but I don't have a death wish. Sam's still talking though, so I suppose I should be listening.

"Sorry I didn't come and say hi, but it was early, and I thought you'd want your beauty sleep."

I find myself grinning. Maybe things will be alright after all. "No problem," I reply airily. "Well since all your things are here, why don't you come over and pick us both up tonight? You can get your wallet and everything then."

"Oh, fair enough. I'll get Backup on the way over, and swing by your flat on the way to the restaurant. About seven thirty?"

"Fine. I'll see you later."

"Bye Chris," he replies before ringing off.

Fantastic. That went better than I thought it would.

Now all I have to do is call Kirsten. She can get a cab over here or something, and Sam can pick us both up.

See? There's nothing to worry about at all.

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

I'm still feeling heavy-headed and mixed up when I pick up Backup the next evening. I've spent the day seeking for normality and failing miserably, flitting from irritating necessities like dry cleaning and shopping to very loud, very cheerful music on the stereo. Read a bit. Watched television a bit. Found myself watching all the junky stuff Chris loves just because… well because he's corrupted me. Not to mention that it sort of makes me feel like he's there beside me, fooling around with a bottle of Bud and looking totally at ease, draped over my sofa and hogging the remote.

The telephone conversation earlier wasn't easy. I'm not sure if I managed to get away with it, either. For once, I'm not looking forward to seeing Chris - probably because I'm afraid he's sussed me. But I'll handle it.

Somehow. And first of all by acting normal with everyone, including Backup.

"Hi," Backup says as she appears, looking absolutely stunning. Being a gentleman – or at least able to do a fairly decent impression of one, I tell her so and she smiles. With dimples. Funny, that. I hadn't really noticed she did that, probably because there's another pair of those little accessories that I know far more intimately.

I'm definitely not in the mood for conversation, and she seems to pick this up but doesn't comment. She's a sensible girl – will make a wonderful wife or partner to somebody one of these days, I think with something akin to resignation. But not to me.

To be really honest, I've probably been giving her the wrong impression entirely, not to mention using her. 

Bastard, Curtis. 

Taking her to bed just after Karl died was crazy. Ridiculous. 

Oh, it was good. Or rather it was technically a rather fine performance on my part but even as I watched her sleeping afterwards I knew I was a complete fool. Going to bed with colleagues is stupid, for a start, but going to bed with a friend just because she's been kind and sympathetic rather than the result of any real physical attraction is against my whole moral code.

Not that going to bed with somebody for a fling usually bothers me one little bit, and I'm by no means ashamed to admit that. Malone might have a first rule and a lot of other rules at that, but as far as I'm aware they don't include celibacy. Judging from what I remember from the small print, they didn't include homosexuality either, but that's fairly irrelevant as I'm fairly sure my leanings have escaped CI5's file. It's been quite a few years since Berlin, and Karl. 

Damn, I miss him. 

I probably sigh because Backup shoots me an odd glance as I start the car.

"Problems?" she says, frowning.

"No," I lie casually. 

Of course it's not a problem. Rediscovering my bisexuality so soon after Karl's death, and directed at my oh-so-straight SEAL of a partner? Realising that the closeness, the friendship, the trust have culminated in an all-consuming urge to take it further? Nearly blowing the whole thing because it was just so good sitting there beside him?

Idiot, Curtis. But it's not a problem at all. I can handle it. 

Except there are cracks in pavements. 

 

~*~*~

 

As we head for the restaurant, I can't help noticing that Backup's been throwing sidelong glances at both Chris and I since that curious exchange of keys and wallet and – being Backup – she seems to have smelled a rat of some sort. This does not please me one little bit and I'm more than aware that my partner and I have to communicate slightly better tonight than we did during the phone conversation with Chris earlier if she's not going to start drawing unwelcome conclusions.

The fact that I've not responded to even casual suggestions of a drink at her place the last couple of weeks probably hasn't pleased her, despite the oh-so adult conversation we had about just being friends and all that sort of stuff the morning after we'd spent half the night enjoying each other's sexual prowess. 

I'd felt so guilty about being so detached with her that I'd suggested this evening out. It was a way of proving we were, of course, still friends. The thought had even drifted through my mind when I came up with the idea that I might just take her home, abandon my principles and seek a little more physical release. Or rather I would if my baser instincts got the better of me, but I was determined they wouldn't.

No, I think it's more a question of knowing they wouldn't because it's not Backup I'm craving for. I knew that even when I was lying beside her, caressing her and watching the slim body respond to my touches and kisses. 

Kirsten's rather broad Essex accent pulls me out of this mixture of feelings, informing us that she's sure she can get us in to some night club or other afterwards where she has connections.

Judging by my own personal appraisal of her, I wouldn't like it anyway. It's probably as pretentious as she is, with very little substance behind the external, rather gaudy façade. 

"Don't think so, guys," Backup says neutrally. "We have to be at work by seven tomorrow, and it looks like we're heading out for a few days."

Chris cocks his head on one side, and I probably look puzzled as well, as this is news to me.

"Malone told me to call you and let you know," she says. "He told me a couple of hours ago but I wasn't going to spoil your evening. At least not until you were reaching your limits with the alcohol."

Chris grimaces, and Kirsten looks at us blankly. Or maybe more blankly than usual. What did Chris tell her we did? I can't remember, but probably not that we ran around the world shooting baddies.

"Oh well," Backup says after a minute, heading for the entrance to "La Goulue". "Be better for Sam, anyway. He won't be sulking because he has to mind the drink drive rules so much."

Kirsten has finally cottoned on to the intricacies of the phrase 'heading out', by the looks of it and looking dejectedly at my partner. She pastes on a look of brave resignation, or at least as much as her heavily made-up features permit without cracking the mask, and grabs onto his arm possessively.

"Shame, " she pouts. "And you really all need to go? And not drink? And you can't sell concert rights after a late night?"

Oh yes, that's it. Chris in 'king of the music world' mode. He makes up various professions for himself, which even to my knowledge include drummer, insurance salesman and stunt man. My own 'civil servant' stuff seems extremely dull beside that, I suppose.

Chris murmurs something to her, obviously appeasing, and I feel my guts twist with frustration as their faces nearly touch. I could cheerfully strangle her.

Backup, I notice with considerable satisfaction, follows up her slightly contemptuous look with a very definite roll of the eyes as Kirsten slides off her jacket to reveal a skimpy dress that screams 'bad taste'. Chris, damn him, seems more interested in the fact that it reveals a fair portion of her anatomy than the fact it's badly cut, makes her look like a tart and is completely overshadowed by Backup's understated, elegant top and skirt.

If I was a woman, this would be bitchy. 

I manage to keep my mouth shut and my expression bland as we settle into our seats and Romain hands us the menus.

"Oh, excellent," Kirsten squeaks. "I always think menus are so much more refined in French. It's the language of haute gastronomie," she informs us superciliously. "So appropriate, really. Wonderful cooking, wonderful language. I find it so useful to be fluent."

Shame about the pronunciation, darling, or I might have believed you. It sounds like you did battle with a GCSE in it and lost, to be honest. Backup's mouth twitches, but Chris is blithely scanning the pages. We've been here before, and he always has steak (how imaginative) despite the maître d'hôtel sharing my own opinion that this is something of an insult.

"Backup speaks French as well," I say, evilly, forgetting my good resolutions about riding Chris' partner for the evening. 

"Oh wow," Kirsten says, sounding a little pissed off by having to share the spotlight here. 

"Oh, not that well," Backup reassures her. "But everybody does in Canada. I guess I've forgotten most of it."

Like hell she has. She speaks it nearly as well as I do despite the weird Québec accent. I'm not quite sure whether she's being genuinely modest or whether she's happily baiting the latest language expert in our midst on purpose. 

For my part, I avoid all jokes on cunning linguists, as I've heard them rather too often and scan Romain's latest list of goodies myself.

"Shall I translate for you?" Kirsten offers, after I put it down rapidly. 

I decline politely but don't expand on that as Chris is cheerfully explaining that nouvelle cuisine might look pretty but he still prefers steak. Romain's listening resignedly as he's heard all this before, and Kirsten is frowning rather worriedly.

"I often have trouble deciding between the cuisses de grenouilles or the veau à la milanaise" I tell Kirsten quietly, feigning interest and making sure my own pronunciation isn't quite up to its usual standard. Chris isn't listening because Romain's telling him – as he always does – that he's a lost cause.

"Oh, absolutely," she simpers. "After all the veal scares, though, I feel a bit bad about the little darlings."

"I can understand that," I say. "Which is why I often go for the fish."

I'm fairly certain she couldn't tell a sea bream from a shark, to be honest, particularly in French. 

"Right," I nod. "You going to have that, then?" I point at Kermit in garlic sauce.

"Good idea," she says, so I nod wisely and point to the frogs' legs on the menu as Romain gets his notebook out, not wanting Chris' ears to perk up before my little ploy is concluded. Backup's having trouble keeping her face straight but steers Chris rapidly onto another subject, obviously on my side on this.

By the time the meals actually arrive I'm absurdly pleased with myself. Kirsten stares at her plate, probably looking a little mystified. I delve into my sole, Backus attacks her turbot with appreciation and Chris, as usual, beams at the large chunk of cow. He doesn't seem to have noticed what his ladyfriend is eating at first (Kirsten seems to take second place after the food, I note with yet another touch of triumph), so my current partner in crime decides to expedite matters a little.

"That's adventurous of you," Backup says, sweetly. "I often find the frogs' legs a little heavy on the garlic here."

Chris' head jerks up.

Kirsten may have been wondering what sort of fish looked like miniature chicken legs but had dived in fairly enthusiastically so far. She looks at all our plates, a little puzzled and then the penny drops. 

She pushes her plate away, aiming for nonchalance but failing dismally.

If looks could kill, I'd be lying dead under the table. The triumph I'd been aiming for lasts only a second because I catch the expression on my partner's face. 

Calmly, very calmly, Chris reaches out and suddenly Kirsten's got steak and he's eating Kermit. Smiling as though he's been eating frogs all his life.

"Yummy," he says.

I wish I could find a hole to crawl into.

Somehow, Backup gets the conversation back on track, or at least between the three of them.

It's a very empty triumph indeed.

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

By the time Sam has finished walking Backup to her door, I'm fuming. Finding the cramped passenger seat too claustrophobic I had already climbed out, and was standing in the semi darkness, glaring at them as they laughed and joked their way up to the apartment block.

Backup even glanced back at one point, and I saw her smile falter as she saw my stare. Hell, what does she expect? I'm not the repressed one in our partnership; it's not usually too difficult to tell what I'm feeling. Though Sam wasn't making too good a job on that one tonight either.

Obviously sensing my anger, Backup glanced uncertainly back at Sam, who carried on walking, seemingly oblivious to it all. He wasn't, of course. That much was obvious from the tense set of his shoulders and the forced smile.

Bastard.

I suppose the one thing I should be grateful for is that Kirsten didn't seem to pick up on all the tension over dinner. How she didn't, I'll never know, but this is one occasion when ignorance really would have been bliss. It certainly supports my tendency to date the more - how can I put this - flighty of women. Avoids all the usual unpleasantness, since Sam's behaviour was just subtle enough for her to miss. Which, I suspect, was entirely the point. He meant to piss me off, but not to cause a scene.

So I'll say it again - bastard.

Oh, fantastic. Just to make matters worse, it's started to rain. And not the light spits of rain that don't really achieve anything, which this country seems so fond of, but a sudden, heavy downpour that is going to soak me to the skin within minutes. 

Sometimes I really hate this country.

I should probably get back in the car, but I can't quite bring myself to do it. Sam and I are going to have this out now, whatever it takes. Besides, I doubt I could get much wetter.

They were both under the porch roof when the rain started, and as Backup goes inside Sam jogs back down the path, still smiling. He glances up and sees me leaning against the car, arms folded. His smile falters slightly, and he slows down to a fast walk as he reaches the car.

"Get back in the car, Chris," he begins. "You're going to get soaked."

"No," I snap.

The eyebrows go up, and he frowns slightly before shrugging. "Well, if you want to stand out in the rain…"

"What I want, is to know that the fuck that charade was all about in the restaurant tonight."

"What about it?" There's nothing worse that Sam in 'evasive' mode. He just stonewalls everything, and it drives me crazy. And he knows it.

"Where do you get off treating Kirsten like that?"

"Excuse me?" his voice goes dangerously flat, and I carefully suppress a sigh of relief. When we first met I wouldn't have taken any notice of it, but I know Sam now, and that tone of voice tells me I'm getting somewhere. 

Finally.

Sam is quite difficult to read, until you learn that his feelings are in his eyes, displayed for all to see. Once you figure that out, in all but the most exceptional circumstances you can always tell what he's thinking.

"You heard me. How dare you treat someone I care about like that!"

He bites back a bitter laugh and rolls his eyes. "Oh, please," he mutters.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

He folds his arms as well, and steps closer to me. I've seen him do that a hundred times to intimidate a suspect, but it has no effect on me. I’m not afraid of him.

"Someone you care about?" he mocks.

"That's right."

"You can't care about her. She's a flake, Keel."

"A what?" 

"A flake. I mean, she's not exactly Brain of Britain, is she?"

"And you only date nuclear physicists, do you?" I can't help realising that I've effectively just confirmed his statement about her, but that's not important right now. Kirsten isn't the first airhead I've ever dated, but Sam has never pulled a stunt like this before. 

I want to know what's changed. Why tonight was so different.

"Oh, this is ridiculous," Sam snaps, then moves towards the driver's side. "I'm going home. If you want a lift, get in the car."

Not likely. Opening the door, I've leant in and pulled the car keys from the ignition before he's gone half a dozen steps.

"We haven't finished," I growl.

"Don't push me Keel," Sam snaps back.

"You didn't answer my question."

"I came with Backup tonight, didn't I?"

"So?"

"She might not be a nuclear physicist, Chris, but she's as clever as you are. And worth ten Kirstens."

I change tack slightly, hoping to catch him off guard. "Then why aren't you dating her?"

"She's not my type..." he trails off the end of the sentence, and I know he's said something he didn't mean to. Folding the keys up into my hand, I walk over to him.

"And just what is your type, Sam?" I can't help remembering what happened last night. Or rather, what didn't happen.

Sam looks up from gazing at his feet and watches me for a second, before sighing. "What do you think?"

His voice is quiet now, little more than a whisper, and I fold the car keys up into my hand and step closer to him. He looks tired, and I notice the bags under his eyes for the first time. I wonder if he got as little sleep as I did last night?

I try and come up with a clever response to his question, something that will make him tell me what's going on, but can't come up with anything.

In the end, I decide to go for honesty. Short of Sam storming off and demanding a new partner, I'm not sure things could get much worse.

"After last night? I really don't know Sam."

Sam flinches, and glares back at me. "Is it that you don't know, or that you don't want to know?" he growls.

I glare back at him and step closer again. "If I didn't want to know, I wouldn't be standing in the rain demanding an answer." I snap back, trying to hold on to my temper. Why does he have to be so damn evasive all the time? Is a straight answer too much to ask for?

At the harsh tone of my voice the shutter comes down over Sam's face, and I curse my thoughtlessness. Snapping at him isn't exactly going to get him to open up to me, is it?

I sigh and run a hand through my soaked hair, deciding on a different tack. "Why did you leave so suddenly last night?"

"I didn't..." Sam stammers back, before finishing lamely, "It was getting late."

"No it wasn't." 

If I didn't know better, I'd say that a fleeting look of panic crossed Sam's face, but it couldn't have. I mean, what's he got to be afraid of? I'm the only other person here.

"I'm not stupid, Curtis. Something happened last night, and whatever it is has you running scared. Now why won't you tell me what it is? It can't make things any worse, can it?"

Now the panic is replaced by something else. Resolve? Determination?

"That depends, I guess."

"On what?"

"On your reaction."

"My reaction to what?"

I find myself on the verge of holding my breath while I wait for Sam to finally tell me what's going on. While I do have a sneaking suspicion, I can't be right. Can I? 

Do I even want to be?

Then he leans over to me, just like he did last night, and suddenly his lips are ghosting over mine. For a second I do nothing, too stunned to react, until he deepens the kiss and I find myself responding, leaning into him as my eyes drift shut.

His hand touches the back of my neck, gently caressing my skin before settling into my hair, stroking softly and holding me close. A moan escapes, and I can feel a familiar warmth flowing through me as I cup Sam's face with my hands.

Now it's my turn to deepen the kiss, and I run my tongue lightly along his lips, encouraged as he opens his mouth, his hold on my neck growing firmer as his tongue reaches out to meet mine.

A shiver runs through me, and I moan again, giving myself completely over to him.

I don't know how long the kiss lasts, but finally I open my eyes again, and what I see is enough for me to break the moment, pulling away from Sam as my eyes widen in alarm.

It's still light enough, just, for me to see that Backup is standing at her window staring down at us. Fuck.

Sam is staring at me, a mixture of desire and fear on his face, his whole body radiating tension.

I gesture slightly towards the apartment, trying not to look too obvious while struggling to push my own arousal to one side.

"Backup," I mutter, embarrassed to find that I'm having trouble catching my breath.

Sam glances up and sighs as he sees her standing behind the glass. "Shit."

He looks back at me and hesitates as we both shift uncomfortably, embarrassed.

"We should go," Sam begins, and I nod, handing him the keys. I can't help but notice that he's careful not to let his hands brush mine. He walks away from me and slides in behind the wheel, and when I'm out of his sight I can't stop myself from running my fingers over my lips, remembering the feel and the taste of him.

Sam starts the engine and I open the passenger door and get in. The atmosphere in the car is immediately awkward, with neither of us speaking.

There's nothing I'd like better than to ask him what that meant, why he kissed me, but I just can't get my voice to work.

I never knew I was a coward.

Sam has his eyes fixed on the road, and not once during the short journey to my apartment does he look at me, or speak to me, or anything.

Was he offended by the kiss? Was this all some kind of strange joke, and he's disgusted that I responded to him like that? God knows. I don't know what to think anymore. 

It certainly wouldn't be the first time I've seen someone react like that at finding out a friend is gay, but then, that doesn't really apply here, does it? I'm not the one who initiated the kiss. Unless he realised what I'd done last night, what my reaction meant, and wanted to find out for certain before requesting a new partner and severing all ties.

Shit, I just don't know anymore. All these fears are whirling round in my head, and I just can't seem to separate one from the other any more.

When we reach my place, he pulls up behind my car but leaves the engine running. He obviously doesn't plan on coming in, so I don't bother inviting him. I'm not sure I could if I wanted to.

I undo my seatbelt, open the door and climb out of the car almost on autopilot, all the while with a little voice in my head screaming at me to say something now, before it's too late. 

Summoning up the courage that seems to be deserting me, I lean back down into the car, and force myself to speak.

"Sam…" I begin, but he interrupts me before I get any further.

"Chris, I'd better go. We'll talk in the morning, okay?"

I can't quite find the energy to argue, so I nod dumbly and shut the door, stepping back onto the pavement to get out of the way as he screeches the car out onto the road and disappears round the corner.

I stand out in the rain for a while, just staring down the road at nothing, before finally forcing myself to turn away and head inside, fumbling for my keys as I walk.

I haven't felt this lonely for a long time.

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

I don't know what possessed me to tell Chris we'd talk in the morning, really. 

First, we've to be at HQ by seven, which is ungodly considering we're supposed to be packed and ready. Khaki fatigues, plenty of ammo and passports, Backup informed us while Kirsten went to the ladies' room. She and Richards were coming along too.

All that faded into insignificance amid all the other fun and games going on at the restaurant, not to mention afterwards, but it hits me as I go inside my flat and start hauling out my stuff. Khaki, eh? 

I work rapidly, concentrating on cleaning my gun once the basics are ready, wondering what the job is going to be about. A much better solution than letting my mind drift to where it really wants to, meaning the little scene under Backup's window.

When I first started working with CI5, I remember all the kit they handed out and being rather impressed. Black combats for night stuff. Dark green for jungles and other greenery. We've used both those, of course. The khakis haven't actually seen the light of day so far, as the only desert we've ended up in – if you can call it that – was after the plane crash in South Africa. 

No, I'm not going to go there, I decide. Although, to be honest, it was a fairly key moment within our partnership. Just like the job on Nomine Patri, where the tables were turned and Chris found himself propping me up by the time we got off the island. 

I zip up the holdall, mentally going over the equipment one last time and am finally satisfied. In fact, I'm glad of going off do so something a bit more thrilling than the milk runs we've been on recently. Milk runs that have given me too much time to think and Chris time to get involved with the intellectually-challenged Kirsten. 

Like the sensible little agent I am, I'm even in bed just after midnight. Once there, however, I can't sleep. Images of that kiss keep playing through my mind in a continuous loop. And Backup looking down on us.

Did she see?

Why the hell did I do it?

Because Chris had asked for an answer, and actions speak louder than words. And he didn't resist, did he? I wasn't imagining it when he responded. I'm certain about that. Will *he* regret it? 

I don't know. I don't know anything. Just that I'm probably the world's greatest fool. 

The worst that can happen is that he asks for another partner. The best is that he shares my feelings. Somewhere in between is an awkward compromise where he rejects them but is prepared to work with a partner who has bisexual leanings. 

We need to talk.

For a moment, I'm tempted to call him right now, at what must be after two, but the night before a mission isn't the ideal moment.

Eventually, I fall asleep.

 

~*~*~

 

Morning dawns about two hours later, I think. It brings with it a scratchy throat and a head full of cotton wool, which is just what I needed. Serves me right for standing out in the rain two nights in succession, I suppose. But nobody died from a cold, so I'll ignore it.

I roll into the briefing at one minute before seven, and to my amazement am the last person there, including Chris who's not only arrived before me but looks awake. 

To my intense irritation, I sneeze. Several times. Nobody comments, but Malone throws me an impatient look. Chris doesn't look at me at all, beyond a casual 'hi'.

Well, at least he's not asked for us to be split yet, by the look of it. But Chris is a professional and he probably wouldn't do it before an early-morning briefing anyway. 

Backup's doing 'cool and professional', but then she always does at times like this. Richards is grinning, but that's fairly common too. The only person I can really read is Malone, who's obviously impatient to get going. 

I have to talk to Chris, that little voice insists. Backup too. Have to. But when? It's infuriating to be in this limbo where I can't sense how he's feeling. But then I suppose I'm not giving much away either. We're both good at that when we have to be, remember. We're professionals. When we're not dissecting our own relationship or messing up each other's, of course.

Predictably, Malone gets moving rapidly, and it's interesting. It's an extraction job, this, based on information from what he calls a 'highly reliable source.' Oh. We've encountered those before and I'm not sure who's kidding whom.

We've heard about the guy we're supposed to be taking out of there, but not many people haven't these days. Al Khayal, they call him. The Shadow. One of the leading troublemakers in the Palestine versus Israel combat at this particular moment, he's not well-loved by anyone from the Israelis, the rest of the western world and even a fair proportion of the people he's trying to liberate. 

He's clever and rich and has a finger into a great number of pies. The press make him out to be some sort of myth thanks to his education and his gift for stirring up support from locals, whether he's in Libya or Azerbaidjan. We know the Russians have paid him in the past, but he's not fussy who's on the money end. He's not even driven by religion: his Austrian mother and wealthy Syrian father gave him looks that are difficult to define but he adapts them to circumstances. He also appears to have a lack of interest in any faith except total hedonism – and somewhere along the line he's picked up a lot of qualifications and a total lack of scruples. 

Rumour has it that his latest venture is being financed by some sort of consortium based in the Arab world somewhere, who would be happy to see Israel's nose rubbed in the dirt and their nation shattered. 

Like most security forces, we've been interested in him for years, but without very much success except for a few blurred photographs and a lot of frustrating near misses. 

His name is fairly well chosen, then. However, Malone informs us, we are now going to do the impossible with a little (a very little, from what I can see) help from the Israelis who do not wish to be implicated in the extraction itself. Sensibly enough. In fact nobody wants to be involved or named, which is why we're going in without ID once we've landed in Israel. We don't exist. 

When Malone comes out with this bit, I throw a glance in Chris' direction as it brings back memories of our little trip to South Africa. However, my partner is concentrating on every word that our beloved leader is saying. Like I should be doing. 

After a few more details to be committed to memory, Malone asks for questions.

"And who are these people we hand him over to?" Backup says, one eyebrow raised. "If it's the Israelis, that's not going to go down well."

"You are not required to know that, Miss Backup. I repeat, your presence on Palestinian territory must remain incognito. Whatever happens. Your target will be taken directly out of Israel, and who will do so and where he will be going is not part of your brief. After your mission you will return to Tel-Aviv via the same means that you were delivered to the target area. Immediately."

Malone hands us some rather basic plans of the factory complex in question, then, and nobody sees fit to comment on the fact that it looks like two small boxes, a couple more tiny little boxes plus a dotted line to the left and a small cross to the right. Most informative. 

"The compound," Malone says, stating the obvious. "With the two buildings in question, the border to your left and the village to your right. Should you be split up and any of the team miss your rendezvous, head in that direction until you find a broken-down bus beside the road. Conceal yourself there and someone will pick you up within a few hours."

We all nod obediently. Even Richards refrains from cracking jokes. He looks rather pleased with himself though – like Backup he keeps muttering about everybody else getting all the fun, and now he's all set to break out his khakis and be a non-existent hacker in the middle of a Palestine desert. 

Having him along isn't a luxury, however. Not if – as the mysterious informant has indicated – Al Khayal's headquarters are at this complex and we need to get to his information resources fast. The Shadow is by no means your average terrorist waving a rifle and urging on the uneducated hordes, but bases all his actions on computer modelling and by tapping into other information systems. Clever boy, and hardly surprising that he looks more like a western playboy than anything else. Not a teatowel in sight.

Malone's final words, however, don't please me much. Apparently I'm headed for the office part of the compound with Richards, while Chris and Backup are will make up the other team with Khayal's living quarters as their target. Since the whereabouts of anyone inside there, or even whether the computer systems will be in the correct little box isn't certain, logically enough we have two computer experts and two … well, whatever Chris and I are supposed to be. 

Backup's frowning. Maybe she's reflecting on the relative pros and cons of being 'only' the second string as far as the data is concerned versus playing the potential genius who catches Khayal on the other. I watch her for a while, trying to catch her glance but there's nothing doing.

The retainers - about six - apparently sleep in one of the other little boxes on the plan (we don't even bother to comment on the fact that which one is yet another thing that isn't certain), and during the night only a single guard is up and about. Or so we're led to believe. 

All we have to do is move in there quietly, grab our man, tie the others up (no bloodshed unless necessary, Malone says almost casually) and go back to the border. Nothing to it, his tone implies. But then he'd adopted exactly the same tone of voice when we'd been dropped from a great height onto an island full of cyanide gas and a nutter with his finger on the button. I glance over at the others to see what they're thinking of all this, but they're concentrating on the little boxes again.

What if they've got a bloody party going? Or 'about six' means more like twenty, with rampant insomnia? I nearly ask that, but sneeze again. Malone glares. 

"Are you unwell, Mr. Curtis?"

"No, sir. Slight cold."

"Good. Well then get moving. Your flight is at ten, and arrangements have been made with El Al regarding your weaponry. You will be met at Tel Aviv and provided with transport, and from that point on…"

"We won't exist," Chris finally interrupts Malone. It's almost a relief to know that some things never change. Having already been the focus of the icy looks, my partner gets his in turn. 

I wonder if Chris is going to choose this moment to have a quiet word in Malone's ear, but he doesn't and simply heads for the locker room. Richards starts whistling, Backup heads off the armoury for something, and I realise that my throat now feels like it's full of sandpaper and it's a great effort not to blow my nose. 

 

~*~*~

 

By the time we board the plane, I've had precisely thirty seconds on my own with Chris and that was only while Richards and the others caught up with us in the garage. Backup has said very little as we did a final run-through of equipment, and by now I get the feeling she's been studiously avoiding looking in my direction or in Chris'. 

Or am I imagining all this? Maybe she saw nothing at all last night.

Chris' few words, however, are running around non-stop in my head now and what with that and the plane's air conditioning making my nose stream, I feel downright wretched.

"I'm sorry, Chris," I'd started, very ill at ease. "You must think…"

"What should I think?" he'd said, softly. "We've done questions and not really got to the answers, Sam. Apart from a short practical demonstration that seemed to tell me a few things. Or make me want to ask some more."

"Look – "

"Like I guess I know what your type is, but I've not figured whether you wanted a response from me personally, or… hell, I don't know what you want. Or what I want."

"You don't?" I'd said quietly, starting to wonder whether I'd imagined his body moulding to mine, his tongue inside my mouth. 

"Maybe I do. I just have to figure out whether you're crazy, I'm crazy - but I just need to know if I was right, and…"

I didn't catch the last few virtually inaudible words as the lift doors opened to reveal our respective partners for this mission. 

There'd been warmth as well as confusion in his voice, which had given me hope. But the tiny shake of his head as the others had approached seemed to negate it. Maybe. 

Oh Christ, I don't *know*. 

'If I was right' about *what*? That he's figured I like men? That he knows I'm attracted to him? That if so, we can simply fall into each other's arms and he'll want me like I want him? A straight ex-SEAL?

Don't be ridiculous, Curtis. The only sensible, normal thing we can do is forget all about it, if we ever can.

It didn't help when Backup plonked herself down next to Keel on the plane, but it's logical enough since they're – provisionally – partnered. 

They're chattering now – I can see them across the aisle, and Chris is grinning, dimples showing. A feeling of dread washes over me, imagining Chris making the whole scene in the car park into some sort of horrible joke. Finding the idea of his partner's move on him funny. 

No, he wouldn’t do that. Surely not. 

Richards is fishing in the seat pockets, fidgeting. He's made several attempts at conversation and hasn't got very far, which is both unfair and unlike me, as I like the guy. 

"You all right mate?" he asks, eventually, watching me blow my nose again. 

"Fine," I half-snap at him, then feel guiltier than ever and make a half-hearted attempt to lighten things up a bit. I don't do such a bad job of it, I suppose, and even let him pinch half the weak excuse for a meal they bring. I feel crappy anyway, and I'm so used to Chris' fork hovering over my tray that it feels highly familiar.

I try to doze a bit afterwards, and fail. The cabin's stuffy and I feel a bit queasy, but put that down to the tension, the lousy food, the now streaming nose and the frantic need to know what Chris was going to say.

The four-hour flight seems endless, but at least it means I'm going to get my thoughts in order, somehow, before it's over. I'm on a job now, and that comes first. Chris, Backup, Malone – and anyone else – can accuse me of many things, but not that I let my feelings get in the way when it matters. And bringing the Shadow out of Palestine is slightly more vital to world peace than whether Chris is willing to accept a relationship with his partner that involves something beyond a few beers after work.

By the time we land, I've half-convinced myself he was going end the conversation by telling me I'm a crazy bastard with a bad line in sick jokes. I just hope I can play it like that too.

And fortunately, the adrenaline that's starting to flow now we're on Israeli soil has taken care of this stupid cold, which is finally drying up.

Mind over matter, of course. 

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

The jeep ride from Tel-Aviv airport seems to take forever, but finally Sam pulls off the main track that serves as a road in these parts, drives another couple of hundred yards and then kills the engine. It's dark now, night fell during the jeep ride over here, which is exactly how we planned it. Malone's 'friend on the inside' has told us that the Shadow is staying in an old factory outside a small town in the West Bank, , which is where we're heading, and now we're only a couple of miles away.

Last night, part of me had hoped that Sam and I might have a chance to talk some more on the flight over to Israel, or at the very least on the jeep ride. To have some chance to deal with things, but with Backup and Richards with us every step of the way, that just hasn’t happened.

I wonder if Sam wishes we’d had the chance to talk properly? I could deal with this much better if I just knew what he was thinking, and the thirty second conversation on the way to the airport this morning hasn’t done a whole lot to reassure me. A small voice in my head is still half convinced that he’s straight, disgusted with my reactions and was simply testing me. I mean, how can Sam be gay? I’ve known him for two years now, surely I’d have seen some sign of it before he dropped this particular bombshell in my lap. 

Right now, I’d rather have to deal with a couple of dozen landmines than this.

Maybe I’d given myself away somehow, and he wanted conclusive proof before going to Malone and demanding a new partner. Another voice in my head thinks that Sam must actually be interested in me, though right now that seems like so much wishful thinking. 

Way too many voices, if you ask me.

Of course, the fact that I seem to have yet another voice in my head providing a running commentary on just how good Sam looks in that khaki combat gear really, really isn’t helping.

So much for talking things over, Sam has barely said a word to me since just after the briefing early this morning, and would probably be just as contented if I wasn’t even there. What was all that cryptic stuff? Neither of us was making much sense. What am I supposed to think?

Apparently though, neither of us is being particularly good at hiding our feelings, because Backup and Richards have both been throwing surreptitious and confused glances in our direction for hours.

Not that I’m particularly surprised. I have no idea whether or not Backup actually saw us kiss last night or not, but instinct tells me probably not. If she had, then surely she’d have confronted us about it? Knowing Backup, we’d have both been hauled up in front of Malone this morning for breach of the First Rule, but again, I’m not sure.

In spite of her reputation as a by-the-numbers agent, Backup can be remarkably sensitive sometimes. Maybe she did see, and is simply trying to give us space to deal with it ourselves. It bothers me, though. Even in these last few hours it’s become obvious to all four of us that the easy camaraderie, the spark between us that keeps us in tune with each other in dangerous situations has gone.

Not a good time to be going into a hostile situation.

The walk from the jeep is brisk but silent, and it’s not long before we can see the silhouettes of the town ahead of us. The jeep is concealed a couple of miles back the way we came, just over in Israeli territory. The combined clout of Malone and his mysterious friend is enough that the army patrols criss-crossing the area have been instructed to look the other way when they see us, but not quite enough to provide us with any backup should this go pear shaped. 

Still, that’s one less thing to worry about, I suppose, which is helpful. Forcing this guy out to the jeep is going to be difficult enough, especially if some of his terrorist buddies take exception to his leaving.

Al Khayal isn’t our only target tonight, though, which is the main reason why Backup and Richards are here. We need his files; all the names of the people he’s trained, the places he’s destroyed, everything. Malone’s information is that these are on computer, so Sam and Richards are going into the office building to do battle with that side of it, while Backup and I pick up Al Khayal from his sleeping quarters.

No one is particularly impressed with these arrangements. It’s obvious that Backup is pissed, even though she wouldn’t dream of saying anything, that Richards is going in to retrieve the files instead of her. Malone spends half his life telling her that her technological know-how is too precious to be wasted on ‘mundane fieldwork’, but as soon as some of that fieldwork involved computers, it’s Richards that Malone sends in, while she is left looking on from the sidelines all over again.

Sam and I aren’t happy either, though I suspect the way things stand right now nothing short of a month’s holiday on full pay would cheer Sam up. Even without all this uncertainty between us, Sam is never particularly great company when he’s not well, and it doesn’t take genius to see that the sudden bouts of sneezing aren’t hayfever. 

Things have been even more tense between us today than I thought possible. This state of affairs is quickly turning into the norm though, and sooner or later it’s going to impair our working relationship as well as our personal one, if it hasn’t already. Needless to say, I’m still not sure where I stand with him. Though the fact that we’re not going into the compound together gives me a good hint. I’m not even sure whose idea it was for us to split up. Malone’s, probably, since we have more field experience than the others, but it could just as easily have been Sam’s, I guess. I doubt it, though, as Sam was the last to arrive. I just want to get this over with, and work out what’s going to happen between us, if anything. Things certainly can’t stay as they are.

I give myself a mental shake as we approach the compound itself. Concealed out of sight, we each activate our headsets and prepare to move in. Malone said that the compound was practically empty, and he’s obviously right because I can’t see any guards patrolling. It seems a little strange to me if the great Al Khayal is on the premises, and I say so.

Sam thinks for a few minutes, his eyes scanning the compound before finally shrugging. “Everything is as Malone said it would be. Who are we to question the Führer?” he whispers, though his voice comes clearly over my earpiece and I get his voice in stereo. His voice has no trace of the irony that his words reveal, and I bite back a snort of laughter. He hesitates before touching my arm and leaning closer. “Just be careful, okay?” 

I nod, then flash him a quick grin before we split into two pairs and move apart. We all know where we’re going and what jobs we have to do, since we must have gone over the plans a thousand times back at Headquarters.

Sam and Richards sneak off round the corner, while Backup and I move along to the left, heading for the other entrance. The two buildings we’re heading for are actually next to each other, but four people sneaking around in a group are a bit too conspicuous, so we agreed to split up from the start.

I risk a brief glance back at Sam’s disappearing figure as he moves out of my line of sight, and then turn round again, glancing nervously around me as Backup and I move carefully towards the back entrance to the compound. While I’m perfectly capable – we all are – of working solo, I never feel quite as confident when Sam isn’t around to back me up. And when I can’t back Sam up. While he’s only a few feet away from me, it’s still enough to make me extra cautious. Which, I suppose, is a good thing. 

The back gates are closed, just as the front ones were, but these are padlocked shut, which probably means that they’re not used much. There’s still no one around, and Backup and I move through the darkness, stopping close to the wire fence. We weren’t told of any alarms connected to the fence, electric or otherwise, but I’d rather not take any risks, and so I motion Backup to keep a few paces behind me as I search around on the ground and find a small piece of discarded metal. Tossing it at the fence as gently as I can, I breathe a small sigh of relief when it hits the fence and bounces harmlessly back to my feet, without the sparks of electrical current I’d half expected. 

This is ridiculous. How can a man like Al Khayal, who seems to be clever enough to have evaded most of the law enforcement community for years, stay in a place with less security than a child’s playpen? No alarms, no guards, not even a guard dog that I can tell. 

I dismiss these concerns though, as Sam’s voice breathes over my earpiece.

“Two minutes, 4.5,” he mutters, and I nod, even though he can’t see me.

“Confirmed, 3.7,” I whisper. “Two minute countdown.”

Two minutes to get inside the compound and to the relevant buildings before the time comes to move in.

Backup moves up beside me, and gingerly swings herself up onto the gate as I do the same. Sam and Richards opened the front gate since it wasn’t chained closed, but since we’re going to be leaving hard and fast through the front entrance, we’re leaving the gates as they are and climbing them. A guard, should there be any around here, is less likely to raise the alarm if the gate is intact than if there’s a great big hole cut out of it with wire cutters.

Quickly shinning up the gate and down the other side, Backup and I hit the ground running and move quickly over to the largest building in the compound – the living quarters. Even that building isn’t very big, a one story concrete building that looks like it’s seen better days.

Apparently it’s adequate enough for this bastard to plan new and more insidious (God, I’ve been hanging around Sam too long) ways to kill people.

I haven’t managed to catch a glimpse of either Sam or Richards since we split up, even though I’ve been keeping one eye open. Part of being good at these things is knowing who not to kill, which means having a pretty good idea where your colleagues are, even in the middle of a firefight. Whatever Sam might think, he’s not the only one who’s heard of death by friendly fire.

Secreting ourselves behind the various petrol drums stacked up around the compound (it’s not like they can just go to the local BP garage round here), Backup and I wait for Sam’s signal. It’s a safe bet that people will come after us as soon as we snatch Khayal, so Sam and Richards need a bit of extra time to get all the files they came for before we make our presence known.

Backup taps me on the shoulder to get my attention, and wordlessly points towards the back corner of the compound – the way we’ve just come. There’s a solitary figure walking along the inside fence, and even if I wasn’t able to distinguish Sam’s silhouette at fifty yards (I’ve spent more than enough time watching him to have this down to a fine art), the large rifle the shadowy figure is carrying would be enough to tell me that he’s foe, not friend. 

For some insane reason, this actually makes me feel a bit easier. The emptiness around us had been starting to bother me, as well as the fact that we hadn’t seen any guards. Sort of like in the movies when things are just that bit too quiet – always thirty seconds before all hell breaks loose.

Malone said that there would only be one guard, though, so it looks as if his information isn’t quite the complete crap it usually is, which is encouraging. His ‘sources’ do have a reputation for being less than accurate. But we’ve all done this before, and there are four of us. For the time being at least, one solitary guard poses very little threat.

This time, it’s Richards’ voice that we can all hear in our headsets.

“We’re moving in, 4.5. Give us sixty seconds then begin.”

“Understood,” Backup replies, then grins at me as I join in the conversation.

“See you in hell, guys.”

As soon as their time is up, Backup and I leave our hiding place and move silently over to the barracks. From the outside the building looks exactly the same as the office we watched Sam and Richards enter – rundown, dirty, and the few windows that still have glass in them have already been shattered.

Hard and fast is the key here, and all four of us need to get in, get what we came for and get out before they know what’s hit them.

Or that’s the idea, anyway. But almost the second we kick the main doors down and enter the barracks themselves, it’s obvious that something is seriously wrong.

There’s no one here. Not only that, but almost every sign that there was ever anyone here has been hastily - and obviously – removed. The beds have no sheets, a handful of cupboard doors are still open, but there’s nothing in them, and most importantly, the Shadow isn’t where he was supposed to be.

Fuck.

Backup and I share an alarmed glance, and she’s already opening her mouth to speak when we hear Sam’s panicked voice.

“Bomb! Everybody out!”

Shit.

Yelling at Backup to find some cover, I dart out of the building and start running towards the offices.

“Sam? What’s happening?” I yell, not bothering to keep my voice down. It’s too late for that now.

“The offices are wired!” he yells back, and I just have time to realise that I’m the one with the most explosives experience before the building I’m heading for – the one Sam’s inside – disintegrates before my eyes.

The shockwave lifts me off my feet and throws me through the air, along with what feels like fifteen tonnes of bricks and mortar. Somewhere mid-flight there’s a sharp pain in my head, before I slam back into the ground, stunned.

Welcome to hell.

As the sound of the explosion fades away, there’s a stunned silence before all hell breaks loose once again.

There are footsteps behind me, and I can hear Backup whispering into her earpiece. Why on earth is she whispering?

It’s another few seconds before I realise that I’m still in a heap on the floor. Forcing myself to roll over, I try and get to my feet, but for some reason it’s not working. I can’t see straight, and end up staring dizzily up at the thousands of stars in the sky, trying to figure out what’s happened.

Backup’s face appears above me, and she’s talking, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. In fact, I can’t hear much of anything.

Then the stars disappear for a while.

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

It's eerily quiet as we creep round to 'our' building, but that's good. The longer it goes without anybody firing guns, the happier I'll be, thanks. 

The good news was that we got past the fence and nobody came to meet us. And either they're not expecting visitors or are extremely sloppy. Or both. 

Armed with the lock-pick, the first surprise is that the door's simply padlocked and the cutters make short work of that. 

The building is smaller than I expected, for some reason – by the looks of the grey-white cube, it's just a couple of rooms, but the hum of a generator outside gives the game away just slightly. Richards also points silently to some thick, insulated cabling running down the side of one wall and gives me a grin and a thumbs-up. 

We're in.

This is going to be the tricky part, as it's nearly pitch dark in here and we daren't risk any light, either. Not yet, anyway. We can make out a couple of computers, though, and they're humming softly. More good news. 

Richards leans over the first one and nudges the mouse, whipping his packet of disks out as he does so. I repeat the manoeuvre with the other one and sigh in frustration when a screen of Arabic characters come up. Not that it matters, of course - Microsoft is Microsoft, but it does make it harder to make sure we've got all the documents copied over.

Richards' hands are flying over the keyboard, which he's switched to Latin characters. He grunts in satisfaction as good old Bill Gates' English version of Windows appears, and then moves over to me and repeats the gesture.

Swiftly, I look at the directories and find a whole lot of them. Excellent. I slide a disk in and start copying – even I can do that. I frown a little as the first little yellow box – labelled helpfully 'locations' appears to be empty, and move the cursor down to the next one. 

Likewise.

Warning bells start to go off in my head, as I can see Richards looking puzzled, too. 

"Yours empty?" I say softly, already scrabbling around on the desk to look for CDs, papers, anything at all.

"Not a bleeding sausage," he whispers back. "Don't tell me they keep their data somewhere else, the bastards."

It certainly looks like it, as we both come up with dozens of empty directories. Richards takes a closer look at both machines, scanning the entire disks, and groans.

"Wiped about two hours ago. Don't like this, Sam."

Neither do I. At least there's silence from Chris and Backup's end, but this is getting trickier by the minute. I have some sort of sinking feeling that whoever's wiped the machines hasn't stowed the disks under their pillow, either. 

So what now, Richards' look asks me. 

"Wait for Backup to contact us," I murmur, motioning to the com link. "If they've come up with the goods, we immobilise the sleeping hordes, then have a proper look."

He nods, still feeling around the desks for anything useful when he pulls up sharp, then slides off his chair and drops to his knees.

"Oh fuck," he says softly. "Oh fuck."

Needing no second invitation, I follow suit and see the tiny, blinking red light. 

Calmly, Richards feels down there, obviously comes into contact with the cable and shuffles along, following it towards the wall. This could be anything, of course, I analyse rapidly. A silent alarm, a power surge box… but neither of us think it is.

When we realise it's connected to the main cable we've seen, which in turn is linked to the first building, I know it's time to break radio silence and get moving. I click the switch as we reach the door.

"Backup," I say into the com link. "Bomb… everybody out."

"Copy," she says calmly, and Chris chimes in, asking what's happened. 

"Birds have flown," Backup adds. "Coming out…"

I glance over at Richards, who's running fingers over the junction between the cables on the outside wall and frowning, reaching for his mini toolkit.

Then the world explodes around me, and I feel the blast knock me backwards. Debris showers down, there are flames, dust swirls… it feels like it lasts for an eternity, and I'm not even sure how long I'm lying there but Backup's voice is in my ear again, full of static.

"Sam? Talk to me…"

I try to find my voice, glancing around and feeling my throat constrict, rendering me dumb for a few seconds more.

"Sam? Chris is down. Going to him now. Status, Sam. Repeat…"

The words don't come out at first, and the static's not getting any better. 

"Backup?" I manage somehow? 

"Chris is down. Give me…." 

The link's going crazy. It's buzzing and hissing at me. I try to repeat my own message, not sure if anything's going through.

"Richards is no-go. Repeat…"

"Chris is down, but…," Backup says, adding something I don't get. The link - mine, I think - is damaged. Then it's clearer for a second or two. "Status, Sam. Did you say Richards is no-go. Repeat."

I try, but this time I'm interrupted by gunfire, which is really all we need. 

"Backup, you hear me? I said Richards is no-go. Confirm status for Chris…."

"Sam," I can hear the strain in her voice even from here. "Copy about Richards. We have to abort, Sam. Go to rendezvous immediately. Do you copy?"

The transmission fades again for a minute, and I try to figure where the gunshots are coming from but my head's spinning and there's a sharp pain in my side that I hadn't noticed before."

"Backup, firing's from the south. We're split up. Go to the primary rendezvous… will try and make alternative pickup. Confirm Chris is mobile, please. Copy."

Silence. Oh Christ.

"Backup, you hear me? Go to the primary rendezvous. Tell Chris….." I hesitate for a second. "He was right. You hear me?"

There's another blast of static, and I really don't know if she got any of that.

"Rendezvous?" I can hear the frustration in her voice.

"Affirmative. Go, go go," I yell, already aware that the gunfire is getting closer. 

Somehow, my legs carry me. Away from Richards, who'll never crack another joke in his life. Away from an empty compound and a booby-trapped computer room.

I don't know what made me give her that last message about being right. There's a horrible air of finality about it, somewhere. Hard to believe that while in the middle of the biggest mess we've seen for a while, with Richards lying dead at my feet, I'm into melodramatic statements. I don't even know if she heard it.

I don't even know how badly Chris is hurt, or if they'll make it back to the border. Or if he's dead.

I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do, because the gunfire's neatly separating our two teams, or rather what's left of them. 

"Backup," I yell into the com. "You copy? Get out of there, now."

Silence.

The pain in my side makes itself known more strongly, suddenly.

I just hope she's moving, and fast. There's no way in hell I can catch up with them, and I don't know if she got the message that my only solution is Malone's emergency way out.

In fact, I don't know if I'm going to get there, either. The gunmen are moving in fast, judging from their shots. I don't know what they're shooting at, and just hope it's not Backup and Chris, unable to move.

There's another burst of static, then suddenly the com goes dead and I know they're out of range. No, I hope they are. 

Good girl, Tina, I think, praying that they're heading back for the border by now.

I hurt, suddenly. My side's on fire and I can feel the wetness against my skin. Then there's the shock of seeing Richards lying there, eyes staring blindly at the stars. It's robbing my legs of strength. 

I've not made more than a hundred yards since Backup's last words, and I need to get moving.

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

"Sam? Talk to me…” 

“Richards is a no-go...” 

"Confirm status for Chris..." 

The voices swim round my head, but nothing quite makes sense.

In the end, it's the pain and fear in Sam's voice, obvious even over the crackling headset that finally drags me back to consciousness.

Flat on my back beneath the stars, it takes longer than I care to admit to gather the energy to lift my arm and bring it up to my aching head.

My fingers come away caked in blood, and for a few seconds the nausea threatens to overwhelm me before I forcibly push it away.

Sam…

I have to get to Sam.

Rolling over painfully, I'm in the middle of dragging myself upright when hands suddenly grab me and roughly pull me the rest of the way.

I stagger as the world spins again, but the hands turn surprisingly gentle. It's Backup, I think, but the world isn't in focus, and I still can't hear properly.

She's saying something to me, fear and alarm on her face, and her voice echoes through my earpiece.

"Chris? Are you with me?"

I stare almost blindly around me, taking in the utter devastation. Most of the office building has been destroyed in the blast, and the wall closest to me is almost completely gone. Piles of brick and glass are all that's left, with debris scattered out as far as I can see in the semi-darkness.

My God. 

I feel myself start to sway, but can't seem to do anything to stop it.

Backup starts talking again, but it doesn't sound like she's talking to me, so I don't answer her. I'm a bit busy trying to stay standing.

"Chris is down, but he’s conscious. Status, Sam? Did you say Richards is no-go?"

My heart stops. Richards? Oh, god, no. Please no. He can’t be dead.

Gunfire breaks me out of my trance-like state, as bullets suddenly start thudding around us.

"Move!" she yells, and pushes me towards the sleeping quarters and some meagre cover. She's already shooting back, even though it's too dark to see exactly who's shooting, and where they are.

Pain screams up my left leg as I lean on it, and with a cry I fall. Backup catches me just before I hit the ground and pulls me up, forcing me to lean on her. Another few steps and a lifetime later, we reach the corner of the building and duck down behind it. I half sit, half fall to the floor, and lean heavily against the rough wall, trying to work out what hurts so much.

It doesn't take long to find the gash running down my leg. Apparently my head wasn't the only part of me hit by the building when it blew.

Backup is still talking, but neither of us can hear Sam properly. Something’s wrong with the radio.

“We have to abort, Sam. Go to rendezvous immediately. Do you copy?”

There’s just static for a while, and then: “We’re split up…will try…alternative pickup…confirm Chris is mobile…”

“I’m here, Sam,” I reply, but I’ve no idea if he can hear me.

“Confirmed,” Backup tries. “Good luck Sam,” she finishes, and it’s only then I realise what they’ve been saying. 

They can't be serious. I struggle to sit up, pulling my gun awkwardly from its holster in a vague attempt to be of some use. "We can't leave him," I protest, but my voice comes out as a hoarse croak.

"We don't have a choice," Backup replies tersely. 

Sam’s voice cuts in, stopping my protest. “Tell Chris…he was right…”

I was right? Right about what? And why can’t he tell me himself? I know he’s hurt, even in the state I’m in I can still hear the tight pain in his voice, and I don’t like it. How bad is he?

“…Go!” he yells, and Backup fires another volley at the approaching hordes, before grabbing my hand and dragging me upright and towards the perimeter fence.

Choking back a scream as the pain intensifies, I try unsuccessfully to stop her even as I duck the bullets that are hitting a bit too close for comfort.

“Tina! We have to go back for him!” I all but yell.

“If we do that we’re all dead,” she answers without slowing her pace.

Okay, this obviously isn’t up for discussion. Tightening the hold on my gun, I pull my arm away from her and straighten up, no longer leaning on her.

Big mistake.

The pain intensifies, and even as I’m wondering in surprise just how badly hurt I am, the darkness starts to descend again.

It’s down to Backup to stop me from falling, again, and she shakes me even as she’s pulling my arm round her shoulder, forcing me to let her help me stand.

“Damn it Chris!” she yells, glancing nervously at our pursuers as they begin to close in. “We’ve already lost Richards, I am not going to lose you too! You can barely stand for God’s sake; you’re of no use to Sam like this! We have to get out of here. Sam will be okay.”

I can see the tears in her eyes, and they mirror the grief I already feel at losing John, even though it's barely registered yet. As much as I hate myself for even thinking it, I know she’s right. There’s not a goddamn thing I can do to help Sam now, and if I stall much longer Backup is going to end up carrying me back to the jeep, because it’s getting harder just to keep myself upright. 

My eyes are stinging now, and I reach up a hand to wipe away the tears, only to realise that it’s blood dripping into them in a steady stream.

I’m sorry Sam.

I can’t quite bring myself to voice my agreement, so I settle for nodding.

We run.

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

I know which way I'm supposed to head, and it's not far. Or at least I did when I started stumbling out of the compound. I know where this village and wrecked bus is supposed to be, but whether I can get there is another matter entirely.

I'm scared. Hurting and scared and it's only sheer willpower that makes one leg follow another for a while. For how long I have no idea. I know I make it back to the fence, cut the wire, turn left…

The gunfire sounds further away, now, but that could be because my head's swimming. After a while, I don't even know if I'm heading in the right direction any more. The only thing running through my head is a strange mixture of wondering how they knew we were coming, reaction from losing Richards, but most of all hoping and praying that Backup and Chris are still in one piece.

The questions repeat themselves in my mind, over and over.

Did she get my last message?

How badly is Chris hurt?

How much further is this fucking bus?

My legs are jelly. The com link's useless and in an angry gesture, I yank it off and throw it to the ground. The belt pack joins it, as do the cutters. The gun, I keep. And the compass. I don't trust my senses.

I carry on for a while. How long or how far, I don't know.

Pain.

Dark.

Silence.

Then I hear the sound of an engine, and instinctively look for cover. I don't think it came from the compound, but as I don't exist, better to get out of the way. 

Unfortunately, I'm trapped in the headlights like a frightened rabbit before I know it - my movements are slowed down that much. And the vehicle stops.

I try to run away, but I only get a few paces before somebody topples me. I'm already vaguely working out a story about lost tourists (albeit in combats with what feels like a gash in the side from flying metal), when somebody laughs. Somebody speaking Hebrew, and thus Israeli. The good guys.

A hand grabs my wrist before I can reach for my gun, which I don't like. OK, so I'm a lost, *armed* tourist. Done that before.

Then I find myself sprawling on the ground, and somebody kicks me. My head spins, and I can't get my mouth around the words before another pair of feet join in. Hands grab at me, then, and I can feel my watch being slipped from my wrist and the compass slipped from my pocket. 

Thieves, then. Probably out for a little Palestinian-bashing.

More Hebrew, and they sound angry now, probably because I'm not carrying any money. They're yelling at me in Arabic suddenly, so I finally manage to gasp out something in English about not being Palestinian. 

Not a good move. Rough hands tear at my clothing, and then there's a silence. I can't see their faces for the headlights, but I'm now naked from the waist down, and somebody spits in the rough direction of my genitals.

"Well, my friend, you're not Jewish," the voice snarls in English. Then he issues an abrupt command that somebody argues about.

They're going to kill me, I think with what seems like resignation among the pain. 

So let them.

The next kick brings complete darkness.

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

I don't remember much about our escape back to the jeep. Nor am I quite sure how we made it out, since it sounded like all the hounds of hell were on our tail most of the time. But we did.

Sam didn’t. At least, not yet.

I couldn't - and still can't let myself believe that anything has happened to Sam.

I don't think I ever hated myself as much as I did then, knowing I left him on his own.

I remember the darkness, the constant struggle to keep putting one foot in front of another, to not become a burden to Backup. Sam may have had to carry me halfway across Africa, but I'm damned if anyone will have to do that for me again. I vaguely remember our relief at reaching the border crossing, which quickly changed to anger as the guards pointedly turned a blind eye, obviously not caring that only some of our group made it out in anything resembling one piece.

I wanted to scream at them, to force someone to go back and help Sam, to find Richards and prove that reports of his death were greatly exaggerated, but deep down I know they're not. Sam wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t true.

No one can help Richards - or hurt him - now.

Somewhere between the complex and the jeep, everything around me became grey, but I very much doubt that was the dawn. The pain was starting to fade, and with it went the adrenaline that had kept me moving.

Backup helped me into the jeep in silence. At first, as we were running, she was constantly speaking, forcing me to respond, keeping me with her for both our sakes. But somewhere along the line she ran out of words, and as she stripped off her pack and climbed into the drivers seat our eyes met.

The pain and loss in her eyes echoed what I could already feel choking me. 

The jeep started up with a splutter, and as Backup drove us back to safety I let myself slip away, aware of nothing but the tears falling to mix with the blood that still flows.

 

~*~*~

 

There’s a roaring noise around me.

My head is spinning. Everything hurts, and I’m so cold. I can feel myself shivering, and try to open my eyes to work out what’s going on. 

It doesn’t help. There’s not much to see, even if I can’t focus on it properly. I can feel the panic growing, and force myself to relax and take a breath.

Come on Chris, focus.

I open my eyes again as the sharpness of the air around me makes me cough.

Ugh, that hurts.

Wherever I am, it’s dark, but what little light there is hurts my eyes, and I squint as I try to sit up.

Pain shoots through me, and I reject that as a *really* bad idea.

A shape swims in front of me, and something grasps my hand. 

“Chris?” A voice echoes round my head. Sam? No. Backup. “Chris, can you hear me?”

I can’t gather the strength to answer her, so I settle for a moan.

At least now I can see why the air is so harsh. There’s an oxygen mask over my mouth.

I try to pull it off, but Backup grabs my hand and stops me. I don’t have the strength to argue.

“It’s alright, Chris,” she reassures me. “We’re on our way back to London.”

“Sam?” I croak, but I don’t know if she can hear me through the mask.

She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she shifts slightly, and I can see someone else moving up beside her. I tense, and she squeezes my hand tight.

“It’s alright,” she says again. “They’re going to give you something for the pain.”

Good. That sounds like a good thing. I don’t want to feel like this any more.

The figure that isn’t Backup leans over me, and after a few seconds I can almost feel the drugs working. I sink back down onto whatever I’m lying on, and feel things rapidly fading away.

I want to hold on, to work out what’s going on and what happened to Sam, but I’m not strong enough. 

The darkness closes in again.

 

~*~*~

 

When I finally wake, it's to surroundings that I've woken to a hundred times before. The slightly too-warm, chemical smell of a hospital.

At first I feel what I always do, relief that I've obviously survived whatever has happened. Being in a hospital does suggest that things didn’t go quite according to plan, though, and the relief doesn’t last long. Now, as I open my eyes, I already know that something’s very different.

Sam.

Sam isn't here.

My mind is still fuzzy, and it takes a few seconds before I remember what happened.

Oh God.

Richards...

Sam…

I close my eyes and choke back a sob, determined not to lose it just yet. First I need to find out what news - if any - there is. And exactly where I am, since I don't remember anything after we reached the jeep.

Please God let him be alright.

I take a few minutes to rest and gather my strength, before the door to my room opens and an obviously exhausted, red eyed Backup walks in.

Her expression brightens slightly, but only slightly, when she sees me watching her.

"Hey," she smiles weakly, before sitting down beside me and grasping my hand.

"Hi," I whisper hoarsely, and she helps me take a sip of water before I continue. "Where are we?"

"Back in London."

"London?" I echo in surprise. "How long have I been out?"

"Almost a day," Backup replies wearily. "I couldn't wake you after we'd got to the jeep, so I called Malone and he arranged our extraction."

I don't really pay her much attention from there, because my mind is working furiously. A day? Then the second extraction - Sam's - should have happened by now. He should be back in London already.

"Sam?" I whisper, almost too afraid to ask.

Backup hesitates, and I know what she's going to say even before she shakes her head. "He never made it to the rendezvous, Chris."

"Wh...what?"

"The Israelis waited at the extraction point for as long as they could," she repeats gently. "He never arrived."

I sink back against the hard mattress, my mind whirling. Where the hell is he? What's happened to him?

Backup leans forward, and shakes me gently by the shoulder. "Hey, come on, Chris."

I focus on her with difficulty, then start to sit up. I have to go find him.

Not that I get very far. Pain slams into me and I groan as Backup pushes me back down onto the bed.

"Where do you think you're going?" she sounds surprised.

"I have to find Sam," I protest, even as I realise how stupid that sounds.

Her compassion is obvious, and she sighs before replying.

"Malone's doing everything he can, Chris. But you're not going anywhere."

"Why, what's wrong with me?" 

She hesitates, and I start to worry. I don't feel ill. I mean, my head's still a bit fuzzy and everything aches, but no more than I expected considering what happened in Israel.

"Maybe I should get the doctor," she says, and reaches over and presses the call button.

"Backup..." I begin, but it's not long before a man in a white coat bustles in and smiles down at me. He waffles on for a while about head wounds and fevers, and at the look on Backup’s tear-stained face I just about manage to bite back a comment about a concussion, which seems to be the only thing I don’t have.

The short version is that thanks to the leg wound I remember from the trek across the desert, I won’t be doing much exercise for a while, but they think I can be discharged in a day or so. Along with the required amount of pills that I know I won’t take, of course. 

At least I'm not going to be in the hospital for weeks. I'd probably go crazy if I was forced to lay here doing nothing while Sam's missing. I listen politely till he finishes speaking, then after he bids me farewell and leaves, I turn back to Tina.

"What are we doing to find Sam?" I demand.

"Malone's got his contacts in Israel searching for him, but there's not a lot anyone can do without admitting that we were there in the first place."

My anger is quick, and obviously expected, since she doesn't look surprised when I lose my temper.

"Who gives a fuck if they know we were there?" I all but shout. "We have to find him!"

"Be reasonable, Chris," she tries to calm me down. "If CI5 admits it was responsible for the attack on Khayal's place there could be devastating consequences..." I start to interrupt, but Backus just talks over me, "...the least of which, is that Khayal might start searching for Sam himself. And if they found him first..." she trails off, but her point is well made.

Not that it makes me feel any better.

"There has to be something we can do!" I protest again, and Backup shakes her head. "We're doing everything we can, Chris," she tries to reassure me. "You know Sam, he can take care of himself."

"But he was hurt," I almost whisper, and Backup looks uneasy.

An uneasy silence settles between us, before she eventually stands up. "It's late, Chris. I should go and let you get some rest. Besides, I told Malone I'd let him know when you woke up. I'll try and come back to drive you home in the morning."

"Thanks, Backup." I manage a weak smile, which she returns before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

I slump back into the pillows, and I can feel the headache Doctor Philips warned me about creeping back.

I feel so goddamn useless.

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

With Backup gone, the rest of the day passes slowly. A few people from work drop by, but while I’m grateful for them making the effort, it’s no one I desperately wanted to see. If I’m brutally honest, the only person I actually want to see pop his head round the door is currently missing somewhere in Palestine. 

I’d give anything to know where he is.

The tablets that they’re still making me take to keep the pain at bay are making me drowsy, and I keep finding my mind drifting off on its own. Not that this is anything new. Almost every time I end up in one of these places, I seem to spend at least a day or so wandering round like some drugged up zombie. But usually Sam’s here, staying with me and helping me through it, even if I tend to spend most of the time grumpy because I hate feeling as if I’ve lost control like this.

This time I’m alone, and I can’t seem to stop my thoughts from dwelling on Sam, and everything else that’s gone wrong. And there’s a lot to dwell on.

Sam’s missing. I don’t know where he is, or what might have happened to him, and I’m stuck in the hospital. I can’t even help to find him. I know he was hurt, I still remember that much from those garbled words back at the compound. I don’t know how badly hurt he was though, but if Richards was killed standing in the same room, then it doesn’t sound good, does it?

Even Sam himself didn’t sound optimistic about his chances. The last words I heard him say seemed so final, as if he knew what was going to happen.

“Tell Chris he was right.”

I’m still not sure what he meant by that. What was I right about? The way he felt about me? Was Sam trying to tell me he was interested in me as more than just a partner? Or maybe that’s all wishful thinking. Maybe Sam was just referring to my initial feeling that there was more than just one guard patrolling the compound – something I was proved right about when the shooting started. 

I’ve just got no idea.

But what if he was talking about us? Where does that leave things? Nowhere, really, until Sam is found safe and well. It’s all a bit pointless the two of us finally discovering our feelings for each other if we’re not together to explore them.

And what about work? If we ever do manage to get together as a couple, that would just about demolish Malone’s precious first rule. While my feelings for Sam mean that I’ve basically ignored that up till now anyway, how much more complicated would it be if we acknowledge them publicly? Or do we sneak around behind everyone else’s backs like a couple of teenagers, snatching the odd kiss when we think no one’s looking?

I don’t want to live like that. Right now, all I want is for Sam to be here.

While I’m making wishes, I want John back here as well, and everything back the way it was.

I’ve fucked up, big time. Completely and utterly screwed up, and Sam isn’t even around for me to put things right. I’m not even sure I know how. So much has gone wrong in such a short time, that it’s difficult to work out exactly how everything now stands.

Even before the screw up at Khayal’s place things weren’t right, we weren’t comfortable with each other. And a small part of me can’t help thinking that if we had been, if I hadn’t pushed Sam into a corner the way I did in the car park, that I would have been with him when the bomb went off, or at the very least more in tune with him, less distracted. Maybe this would all have ended very differently.

Maybe Sam would still be by my side. Maybe Richards…

The explosion – what little of it I remember – flashes through my mind again, and Sam is pushed aside for a moment as I think of John.

I wonder, is there any chance that Sam was mistaken? Even as I think it, I know that there’s no hope of that. He sounded certain, I remember that much. The three words that anyone in our line of work dreads more than any other – ‘a no go’. Almost as difficult to say as it is to hear, and I know damn well that Sam wouldn’t have told us John was dead if there had been the slightest doubt. 

No, he’s gone.

Poor bastard. But then, wherever you are, John, I hope that it’s better than this. The way things are shaping up at the moment, it has to be.

As night falls, the noises in the hospital die down slightly as people settle down to sleep.

No such luck. While I’m still drowsy enough that I can’t seem to get my thoughts in order, I can’t sleep either. I've never been good at sleeping in strange places, since I'm so used to being on missions when you can't let your guard down, even for a minute. 

Even when I do manage to drift off, the dreams that surround me are less than restful. The explosion, John, Sam. Vague memories of the helicopter flight back here, Sam kissing me… More than once during the night, I find myself starting awake, sweat pouring down my face and heart pounding.

Even if I had been able to get to sleep, the nurses obviously have instructions to keep an eye on me, because they turn up every couple of hours or so making sure I’m awake and lucid. Again, this is nothing I haven’t been through before, but it’s not exactly conducive to getting the rest they’re so adamant I need.

By the time morning dawns I’m exhausted, and even more determined to get out of here. Lying around in bed is going to send me stir crazy, and that’s not going to help anyone, least of all Sam.

It’s time to stop wallowing and do something productive.

I sit up in bed, and even that small movement, (albeit the most energy I’ve used up in well over a day,) makes me feel light-headed.

Okay, I can do this.

A few deep breaths, and things stabilise a bit. Good. I take an interest in my surroundings for probably the first time since I woke up here. Not that there’s a whole lot to see. It’s your standard hospital room – bed, small table, light, cupboard, and uncomfortable plastic chair. Nothing I haven’t seen a thousand times.

Now I have to get out of here. Of course, things will be much simpler if I don’t have to make it home wearing nothing but an open at the back hospital gown. If Sam were here, I’d know that there would be a change of clothes hanging in the cupboard. 

While Sam doesn’t like my habit of discharging myself from hospital, he has come to accept it over time, and has resigned himself to at least providing the means to make my flight easier. 

Unfortunately I’m not known for my patience, and sometimes Sam does take a little too long to arrive with my means of escape. The first time he refused to bring me a change of clothes before I was discharged, I’d threatened to leave *without* clothes if necessary. Sam had simply looked at me, raised his eyebrows and informed me quite confidently that as I wasn’t going to do that, he had nothing to worry about.

So I made good on my threat, and he arrived at the hospital hours later just in time to find me halfway down the stairs in nothing more than a dressing gown. The stupid thing was, he’d sneaked away from his shift to bring me a change of clothes in the end anyway, so another half an hour and my departure would have been much more dignified than it actually was.

That’s just like Sam, though. He might roll his eyes a lot and protest at some of the stupid things I do, but in the end he’s always there for me. Tolerating my moods, backing me up no matter how much trouble we get in to because of it. Sometimes, when my guard is down and I find myself thinking about him as more than just a friend, the way he supports me almost seems like it might prove he feels as much for me as I do for him.

But then, apart from the first couple of months after we met he’s always been like that, so it can’t be. That would mean that he’d been attracted to me for two years. He can’t have been.

Can he? 

And yet, if I’m right - if Sam is interested in me, then he must have realised it at some stage. But when? Last week? Last month? The first day we met? And exactly what happened to make him realise it? If he’s anything like me then it just crept up on him gradually. One day we were virtual strangers, then suddenly a couple of months had passed and he was my closest friend. After that, everything else just seemed like a natural progression.

I wonder if it was the same for him.

I wonder if I’ll ever know the truth.

Because Sam isn’t here to ask, and it looks like I might be doing the dressing gown bit again after all.

I do kind of need to get out of bed first though, and with that in mind I swing my legs over the side of the bed.

Gingerly placing both feet on the floor, I stand up, taking my full weight and keeping just one hand resting on the bed. 

It hurts.

So much so in fact, that I yell and have to grab a proper hold of the bed before I fall. This is becoming something of a habit.

I sink back down on to the bed, surprised and annoyed. I don’t have time for this.

Before I get the chance to try again, the door opens and a nurse bustles in. She stops in surprise at seeing me up and about. Or at least trying to be.

“Mr Keel! What are you doing?” she walks over and starts fussing, plumping up pillows and trying to herd me back into bed.

“If you wanted to use the toilet, you should have pressed the call button…” she begins.

“I’m going home,” I interrupt flatly.

“What? Oh don’t be daft, Mr. Keel. The doctor said he might be releasing you later on today, but you certainly can’t discharge yourself before speaking with him. Even if he does decide to discharge you, you’re going to need crutches to walk on for at least a week while your leg heals.”

“Then go get me a pair,” I snap back. “I’m leaving this morning, if I have to crawl downstairs and use tree branches to walk with.”

She frowns and we glare at each other for a few minutes, neither giving an inch, before she finally throws her hands up in annoyance and sighs. 

“Alright. If you’ll just get back into bed for a few minutes, I’ll go and find the doctor, see if I can get you discharged early. How’s that?”

I nod, and she turns to go. Feeling slightly guilty at hassling her, I thank her just as she’s walking through the door. She glances back, and there’s a hint of a smile as she closes the door behind her.

Feeling suddenly tired, I do as instructed and sit back on the bed properly, though I stay sitting up. The last thing I need is to doze off now, when I’m so determined to get out of here.

Fifteen minutes later Doctor Phillips shows up, and we go through a completely pointless repeat of the argument I just had with the nurse, though in much more detail and it takes longer. Finally my stubbornness, and the repeat of the tree branch threat wins, and I’m presented with the crutches and various tablets they think I need to take with me.

After that comes the usual warning about head wounds and threats of blackouts, blah blah blah. Eventually I cut him off mid-spiel and finish off his speech for him.

He looks at me in surprise. “You’ve been through this before, then?”

“Once or twice.”

A few signatures on bits of paper that I don’t even bother reading – for all I know I could have just signed over the rights to my soul, but right now I don’t particularly care – and I’m finally free to go. Of course more mundane things like getting dressed have to come first, and while it takes a ridiculously long time, the clothes that Backup must have hung in the cupboard will do.

It’s only as I’m getting dressed that I finally get a good look at the bruising that covers my legs, chest and side. Souvenirs of the explosion I suppose, though I don’t see the biggest reminder, since I’ve been told to remove the bandage round my leg on pain of death.

Eventually I’m handing in the forms to the desk outside my room, and making my slow way down towards the lift. It seems to take forever before I finally reach the doors, and I have to fight down my frustration at the delay. 

It’s while I’m standing in the lift, waiting to go down to the taxi rank, that I glance at my reflection in the metal door. The metal is dulled and scratched, but clear enough that I get a stark picture of what I look like. I’m much too pale; I’ve got a bandage of some sort across my head and scratches across my face, not to mention the crutches. I look a mess.

Looking down at the floor, I wait until the doors open and move unsteadily towards the exit and the taxi rank that’s outside. 

Half an hour later we pull up outside CI5, and I pay the driver out of the money that Backup remembered to leave me along with the clothes and mobile.

Standing on the pavement outside the nondescript building, I can’t help but shiver at the thought of going inside. Quite apart from the lecture I’m going to get for discharging myself from hospital again, the only answers I’m going to get about Sam – good or bad – wait for me inside.

The guy on security glances up as I buzz to be allowed inside, since I don’t have my pass card. 

I’ve seen the guy around here before, but I’m damned if I can remember his name.

“Is Malone in?” I ask.

He nods, looking uncomfortable as I sign my name into the records. By now everyone must know what happened in Palestine, so the uncomfortable scrutiny is something I get the feeling I’m going to have to get used to over the next few days.

By the time I get across the lobby and take the lift up to Ops, the guard has obviously called up to tell them that I’m on my way up, because Backup is standing impatiently by the lift doors, looking annoyed.

“What are you doing here, Chris?” she snaps before I can say a word. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital.”

“Good afternoon to you too,” I reply, and she falls in step with me as I head over to my desk. “Any news on Sam?”

She falters slightly and sighs. “Nothing yet. We’re looking everywhere we can think of, and Malone has his contacts looking for him as well, but so far it’s as if he disappeared into thin air.”

I didn’t expect anything else, if I’m honest, but hearing it said is difficult. I close my eyes briefly before replying.

“What can I do to help?”

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

I hurt all over, and it's dark in here.

I don't know where I am.

The whimpering sound's coming from me when I try to shift and look around.

It's silent, and I seem to be on my own. Am I in a prison?

Unbidden, visions and memories suddenly flood in. Richards, lying there dead, blood everywhere. The tiny red, flashing light. The hands pulling at my clothes. The spittle…

And Chris. Chris was down, Backup said. Was he dead? I don't know.

I have to move, but the pain washes over me again and I lie still, unable to cope with it. My thoughts are scattered, like pieces of a puzzle, and I can't make them into a coherent whole.

Gathering up the very few wits available to me, I try turning my head, and think I can see a window. Without bars, but it might as well be the moon.

Under my fingers I feel sheets. Rough sheets, and it doesn't smell like a hospital.

So who brought me here and where is it?

My next exploration is to reach up to my own face, and I realise my arms feel like lead. They do reach my chin, though, and at a rough guess there's three days' stubble there at least, if not more.

Then, the nagging ache in my side reminds me of the wound and I force my hand to move again. There's a dressing on it. 

Frustration mounts as I get slightly braver and try to roll onto one elbow to take a better look around. This time, though, it's not a whimper that forces its way through my lips but a cry.

Through a veil of pain, I hear footsteps but I can't turn my head around. Then there's a voice at my head. A female voice, speaking calmly. In Arabic, I think. Hands manoeuvre me gently back into place, and I look up to see a shadowy face frowning at me. I think I'm supposed to say something, but my throat feels strange.

A tiny cup of something appears at my lips as hands tip my head up slightly, and I'm about to drink, automatically, when I flinch. Training says never take anything if you don't trust the contents.

The voice is gentle, insistent. And I don't have the strength to argue. In the state I'm in they could force it down my throat anyway.

It's sort of sugary, slightly chemical. Drugs, I expect. I gag slightly, but it goes down.

My eyes are getting a little more used to the semi-darkness now, and I can see that the woman's not young. For some reason, her face looks more kind than threatening. Then - I think - she says a few words in Hebrew and I flinch again, unable to stop myself.

Who does she think I am? Whoever she is?

I mustn't say anything. I don't exist. Besides, I'm exhausted. Sinking back into the hole I just emerged from seems like the best idea for the time being.

 

~*~*~

 

The next time I awake, it's daylight. My hand flies to my chin as I remember the last, vague recollections and find it's cleanly shaven. Shit.

It's the same room, though. I think so, anyway. Whitewashed walls, a window. It doesn't even hurt that much to twist sideways a bit and look around this time, so I get ambitious and try to struggle up on my elbows. It takes an effort, but I get there, realising that I'd have trouble fighting off anything more than a stray mosquito right now.

There's somebody in the next room, moving around. In some sort of loose robe, by the looks of it. I think I remember a woman talking to me, but even that might have been just my imagination. For all I know this could be anywhere, but it sure isn't the wing in a London hospital that CI5 usually reserve for battered agents. 

I decide to collect my thoughts a bit, sinking back onto what seems to be a clean bed in a virtually empty room. 

I think the woman who was there last time I woke spoke Arabic and then Hebrew, but again I'm not sure I was in a state to recognise either. We were near to the Palestinian territory, so I could be there or in Israel. I wasn't wearing any ID… in fact with a shudder I remember that the last thing I clearly remember after the explosion was wearing very little except a bloodstained khaki shirt. 

So nobody knows who I am - I hope. I suppose I could claim memory loss, or something, but then they - whoever 'they' might be - might go around waving my picture at people. Since I don't exist - at least as Sam Curtis from CI5, this might not be advisable. 

So what am I? An accountant on holiday? Oh, sure. Lots of accountants go wandering around highly controversial areas at night looking for cheap thrills. It's even less likely than trudging across the South African bush. 

Journalist? A possibility. Depending on where I am, though, they night not take too kindly to people snooping around factory complexes where things have gone bang in the night. 

A visiting engineer, maybe. Yes, that sounds about right. I'm quite pleased with that. Attacked and mugged by… well, whoever. Israelis, I know, but if I'm in Israel this might not be a politically correct option. 

We'll see. 

Even thinking is hard work, but I need to do some more. And in doing so, I try a little multi-tasking, trying to spot clues about my whereabouts from the spartan room, work on my clever new cover story and cautiously take stock of my physical condition, or lack of it.

There's still a dressing on my side, and I probe it gently. I'm sure I can feel stitches there. I'm dressed in some sort of loose shirt and even looser boxer-type pants, and when I cautiously look at what bits of my body that are visible, there are a few now-healing scratches and bruises that my limited medical knowledge indicates are not new. So how long have I been here, for Christ's sake?

This brings me back full circle to where I started, and the initial motions of finding my bearings and need for self-preservation are giving way to sickening, frightening thoughts.

Richards is dead. Chris was down. Did he and Backup make it?

I can feel sweat forming on my top lip as it all crowds in on me, and turn my head away as if to swat them from my mind. This seems to alert the person next door that I'm awake, and I don't have the presence of mind to disguise it in order to buy myself more time.

My initial impressions were right - it's a woman, aged anything from late forties to early sixties. She marches over to me fairly briskly, and she's smiling.

I shrug hopelessly when she starts in Arabic, and equally dumbly when she switches to Hebrew. She grimaces slightly, and tries in French.

"Ca va mieux," she says softly, making it a statement not a question. I nod, deciding that looking appreciative is in order. 

She asks me if I'm French and I tell her I'm English. She doesn't speak English, she says, but Khaled does and besides I'm doing all right in French. So then the questions start: who am I, what was I doing, and what did those crétins de voleurs from Israel steal from me? Oh, she knew it was them from the 'treatment', she adds. I remember the hands pulling at my clothing and shudder, but at the same time it occurs to me that if she calls the Israelis cretins and thieves, she's not one of them. 

I was travelling, I say. This gets me a rather strange look.

"I'm an engineer," I venture. "Information technology."

She cocks her head on one side.

"And do you have a name?" her French is soft, lilting, Arab-tinged but fluent.

"John," I mutter. Richards' first name seems appropriate somehow.

"Smith?" she says, pronouncing it 'Smees'. "Or Doe?"

Oh, very funny. But I need a name. Where are English surnames when you need them? 

"Cartwright," I say on the spur of the moment, hoping she's not a fan of the High Chaparral or Bonanza or whatever it was with Big John - or was it Ben - in it. Richards loved westerns.

"Well, Jean, she says, opting for the French equivalent. "You were very lucky. My name is Samira."

"Where am I?" I ask, deciding I can ask that now we've been formally introduced.

"Khaled - my son - found you where the Israeli pigs left you and brought you here. To where I live."

Oh, helpful. But it does confirm yet again which side she's on. Cretins and thieves and pigs. Well, that just about sums up the bunch I ran across.

"And that is?"

"About fifty kilometres from where Al Khayal's last place blew up," she says, looking at me intently. "And where other anonymous… engineers, perhaps? were found wearing similar clothing to yours."

My heart nearly stops, and it must show in my eyes. I'm blown. Oh dear God, I don't even know if she said that sentence in the singular or plural. 'D'autres ingénieurs? Un autre ingénieur?' I can't even speak for a minute. Worse, visions of my own taunting of Kirsten and her command of the French language start dancing around in my head. And of Chris… 

I must look shocked, and she takes pity on me, seeing I can't speak for emotion.

"I don't know who you are, Jean, but Al Khayal is not a true Palestinian. He was trouble and I do not support his methods. At first, we believed it was the Israelis who tried to flush him out…"

'We' again. I'm still reeling from what she knows, but she's still talking.

"… but only one body was found, and it was not that of a Jew and his equipment was European, it seems, or at least not of the kind that the Israelis use. We have no idea who organised the attempt to take Khayal - and I presume you aren't willing to say, but Khayal - like the shadow he is - was already gone."

Oh Christ, the relief. It had to be Richards, so Backup and Chris got away. Surely they did. Please God they did… unless they were taken by some other nameless people. And shot, or tortured…

The distress and frustration must be showing on my face, because she puts a hand on my shoulder.

"So what now?" I get out, trying for calm but it's still husky. "You expect me to talk?"

"I expect you get better. Stronger. Then we will decide. At the moment, no one knows you are here except myself, my son and those who found you."

"Who are they? Who are you?" I ask, not sure if I want to know. There's so much I damn well want to find out.

"We are - just people. I had a little medical training in Paris, long ago. People bring me wounded soldiers sometimes, and I help the people in the village. I do not care much for politics and war, like most Palestinians. But nor do I care for Israeli marauders who come to our villages to steal and make trouble, mind you. 

I suppose the fact she's the nearest thing to neutral I could have wished for is good news, but I'm far from being out of the woods yet. And I still need to ask the question that's haunting me. 

"The - body they found," I ask her, realising I'm so tired I can hardly get the phrases out in French. "Did they take prisoners, too?"

"I don't know," she says, and sounds honest. Or is that just what I want to hear? "Were they your friends?"

"Yes," I say. Not much point in hiding it. 

"I see. If I should hear, I shall tell you. Now I shall give you water, and some more antibiotics, and you must rest."

"I don't need…"

She cuts off my protest, suddenly looking weary.

"You do. I have small stores of basic medicines, given to me by those who have access to it. I was wondering if it would work, since you were so feverish for many days…"

Now I'm the one who interrupts. Another important question I still haven't asked.

"How many?"

"Six days since you were brought here. And we were not sure you would survive - the wound was not so deep, but it was infected by the time Khaled brought you here. You had also been beaten - and had a respiratory infection that was heading for pneumonia by then - you had been lying there for some time, apparently."

So the bloody Israelis hadn't come looking for me when I didn't make it to the bus. Not that they were supposed to organise search parties, I expect.

"Thank you," I say, realising that I owe her a lot. 

"You're welcome," she says quietly, sounding like she means it. I manage a smile of sorts. I still have another of my long list of things to find out to tick off, though.

"Do you have a phone?"

"Not always," she says cryptically. "And not now."

I push it a bit.

"So when?"

"In a day, or two. Perhaps."

I sigh in frustration but she doesn't say any more. In fact she disappears for a minute or two then and comes back with a miniature cup of the sickly-tasting stuff and a glass of water, and promises soup very soon.

The exhaustion's creeping in, now. My head's full of thoughts but they all seem to float together into one heaving mass of questions and fears. Even so my eyes are starting to close.

Just as I'm drifting off, she pats my shoulder again.

"You've been talking about Chris a lot, while you were feverish. Is that your wife?"

I don't answer at first, or I'll break down and weep from the frustration and worry that spills into my mind as she says his name. 

"Not my wife, no," I whisper. "Just somebody I care a lot about."

"She will be worried," Samira says. "Perhaps we can contact her, in a few days."

If *he*'s alive, I think. And I do have to contact CI5, somehow, whether Chris is there or not. It might be a plan, though, if I can persuade her I need to use this elusive phone. 

Right now though, achieving very much is well-nigh impossible. I have to get stronger, and fast. 

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

How many days does it take before people start to lose hope in situations like this? I honestly don’t know whether I should still be optimistic, or whether I should be doing the same as half the other staff here, and quietly giving up.

It’s only been three days. Seventy-two hours. Four thousand, three hundred and twenty…get a grip, Chris. 

It seems like forever since I woke up in the hospital, but I guess Sam hasn’t actually been missing that long. 

Three days have passed since I left the hospital, and six days since I last saw him.

That’s not particularly encouraging, though. It doesn’t take three days to kill someone, let alone six. That kind of decision can take just minutes. Seconds even. If Sam did fall into the wrong hands on Sunday night, he could have been killed a thousand times over. 

Since getting out of hospital I’ve practically camped here at headquarters. Not that my presence has done the slightest bit of good. People around me are doing everything they can, monitoring satellite feeds, scouring news bulletins as well as some of the more…covert information networks to see if anyone has been seen matching Sam’s description, but there’s been nothing.

The atmosphere here is strained, subdued as it always is when we lose someone, and John’s death is acting like a weight on everyone’s shoulders. There’s one machine in the corner of the office that no one can quite bring themselves to use, however short of equipment we are. That one computer has simply been left, and as the CI5 screensaver scrolls lazily across the screen, there are two half empty cups of tea by the side of the monitor that no one will ever finish now, but can’t quite bring themselves to throw away, either.

I stop typing for a second and try to ease the kinks in my shoulders. I feel like I’ve been here for weeks, but it’s only midday Saturday. Malone has finally stopped telling me to go home every five minutes, and let me stay here as long as I didn’t get in everyone else’s way.

As if I’m going to do that! I want them to find Sam as much – and probably an awful lot more - than anyone else, but with Backup, Spence and half the rest of the staff searching for him there was nothing productive I could do that wasn’t already being done.

I just couldn’t bring myself to leave them to it. I still can’t.

It doesn’t matter that I know they’re all doing everything they can, or that my presence isn’t actually going to make the slightest fucking difference. I have to be here. I have to know, one way or another, what’s happened.

And if that means camping out here for weeks, then so be it.

With nothing else to do, I ended up writing my report on what happened in Palestine. I very much doubt it will be any different than Backup’s, and hers was probably ten times more accurate, but it needs doing, and if it means an excuse to stay here a little longer, then brilliant.

Only I can’t concentrate on it. If my eyes aren’t straying to John’s computer sitting idle in the corner of the room, then I find myself hearing Sam’s voice in my head, trying to explain to me the finer points of grammar, and the best way to set out these reports in order to get in Malone’s good graces.

Everything in this building reminds me of Sam. His desk, his locker, the sound of his voice. The way he walks…

No, Chris. Stop it.

I need coffee.

Saving the report that I’ve done so far, I pull myself to my feet and set off towards the coffee machine. It’s horrible instant stuff, and far too bitter for my liking, but any coffee is better than none at all, so I’ll live with it.

It takes five times longer than normal to cross the room, but I’m getting used to it now and I finally grab a cup. Carrying it back to my desk is easier said than done when I’m already holding on to two crutches, so in the end I leave one leaning against the wall and try to manage with one. It hurts more, but I forbear.

I find myself drifting over to Backup’s desk, like I have a thousand times before over the past few days, and seeing what she and Spence have come up with.

“Hey,” she mutters on seeing me approach. “How’s the report going?”

I shrug. “Found anything new?”

She shakes her head. “We’re going through the satellite feeds near Al Khayal’s old base and the second extraction site, trying to find anything that might give us a clue. But…it’s a slim hope, Chris.”

“Yeah, I know.” I manage a brief smile anyway, and watch as she turns back to her monitor, fingers flying over the keyboard as she moves from picture to picture. 

The chance that Sam is still anywhere near the bomb site after six days are practically zero, but we’ve got nothing else to go on. There’s just nothing we can do.

I’m just about to head back to my desk when Backup stops and turns back to face me.

“Chris,” she begins, uncertainly. 

I frown. “What is it?”

“Has Malone told you…the date has been set for John’s funeral?”

The lump in my throat is back again, and I force myself to swallow it down before shaking my head. “No, he didn’t. When is it?”

“Monday,” she says softly.

“Oh.” There’s not really anything I can say to that, is there.

She manages a smile, and I squeeze her shoulder gently, before turning and walking back to my waiting report.

It all seems too final. It shouldn’t be like this. 

I force myself to start typing again, to do something productive with the rest of the day. If I can’t bring myself to go home, and I can’t do anything to help find Sam simply because there’s nothing to do, then at least keeping my mind occupied will stop myself from going slowly crazy. 

I’m all too aware that my chances of ever seeing him again are dropping by the day.

Hours later, I’m still tapping slowly away at the keyboard, (though don’t feel as if I’ve made any progress,) when someone calling my name attracts my attention.

It’s Malone.

“Mr. Keel,” he calls from the doorway of his office. “May I have a word?”

“Yes, sir,” I reply automatically, and fight with the crutches a bit before making it into his office and into a chair.

He’s sitting back behind his desk, waiting for me to settle myself before speaking.

“Doctor King has asked me to remind you to arrange a suitable time for your debriefing."

For the uneducated this might sound perfectly normal, but my hackles go up at the mere mention of her name. 

"I'm not going to see a shrink," I state bluntly, and Malone sighs patiently.

"Must we really go through this every time you come back from a difficult mission, Mr. Keel?"

Even before I speak, I know I'm going to regret questioning Malone's orders, but I don't care. I'm tired, I hurt, and I'm worried about Sam. My temper is short, and I do not want some woman poking around my head trying to find out what I'm feeling.

"It's a waste of time, sir. I already know what happened in Palestine, and what I think about it. Spending an hour discussing what I already know with Doctor King seems a bit pointless."

"You don't feel that you've had an emotional reaction to what happened?"

"Well of course I have, sir!" I all but shout back at him. "Sam's missing, it's obvious that I'm going to feel something."

"And what about the extent of your reaction? It hasn't gone unnoticed that you checked yourself out of hospital, and that you've barely left the office in three days. Do you not feel that you're breaking the First Rule?"

I take a deep breath and just about manage to hold in my temper. "No, sir." 

Malone looks surprised, and it's obvious that he doesn't believe me, so I carry on talking, trying to make him see my point of view.

"Yes, I'm worried about Sam. Surely you can't seriously expect me to work with him for two years and not be worried when he suddenly goes missing. But my..." I choose my words carefully here, "...partnership with Sam, our friendship isn't going to prevent me from doing my job. And I don't need to discuss this with anyone. I'm perfectly capable of dealing with my emotional reaction without it affecting my judgement."

Malone says nothing for a bit, studying me, and I try to look like a calm, efficient CI5 agent who isn't going out of his mind with worry. I very much doubt that I succeed, but finally he sighs, and clears his throat.

"Very well, Mr Keel. I'm going against my better judgement here, but I'll postpone your meeting with Doctor King until this case is resolved one way or another."

"Thank you, sir," I reply, amazed that I've actually managed to convince him.

"This is only postponed, mind you," he warns. "And the next time I tell you to make an appointment with her, you will comply without protest. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir.”

With that he dismisses me, and I gratefully escape back to the main office and carry on working.

 

~*~*~

 

Malone finally chased me out of the office just before nine, and it’s not long before I find myself sitting in my living room, staring morosely out over the graveyard that’s still visible in the fading light.

Where are you Sam? What are you doing?

Why can’t you get to a phone?

Hundreds of questions, and no answers. Utterly unhelpful.

I could quite happily live with him not being here, if I just knew that he was alright. My greatest fear, and unfortunately the one most likely to be true, is that he was taken by the Palestinians. Or even worse, Khayal himself. He’s managed to disappear into thin air as well, and since the last time I saw Sam we were separated by a fair number of Khayal’s thugs, it’s no real stretch of the imagination to see that they might have found him.

Even now they could be trying to break him, to find out what he knows, what he was doing at the compound and who he works for. Even the thought of Sam being interrogated, being hurt, sends shivers of despair down my spine.

I know that it’s happened before, back when he was part of MI6. I’ve seen some of the scars he carries round when we’ve been in the locker room, the ones he stubbornly refuses to talk about. And as much as it tears me apart to think that he ever had to go through that, it’s even worse to think of it happening again. Because unlike in MI6, he has a partner now. Me. And it’s my job to watch his back, to keep him safe when he can’t do it for himself. I let him down, and I feel utterly useless that there’s nothing I can do to help him.

A loud rumble reminds me that I haven’t eaten since this morning, and I drag myself up off the sofa and head for the kitchen. I don’t actually feel hungry, but after Malone’s lecture this afternoon I suppose I should make the effort, even if it is just to keep him off my back. I’m surprised though, that he didn’t order me point blank to visit the shrinks the way he’s had to in the past. The old bastard must be going soft in his old age.

Sighing, I start searching round the empty cupboards in the kitchen, looking for something I can eat. 

In the end I just settle for opening a can and having soup. It's probably not enough, but in the end I can't even finish it, and push the bowl away half empty. I'm just not hungry.

On a sudden impulse, I get up and rummage around in the chest of drawers by the window, looking for a picture of Sam. Photos and bits of paper go flying everywhere, but after ten minutes or so I find what I'm looking for. Sitting down on the floor amidst the mess, I look at the picture in my hand.

I remember this being taken. It was a couple of weeks after we made it back from Africa. I was still on crutches with my leg in plaster (a strangely familiar sensation), but we'd both been so relieved to be home that the various aches and pains we'd accrued along the way just didn't seem to matter.

You can't see the crutches in the photo, but there are still traces of cuts on our faces that you can see if you know where to look.

That doesn't spoil the picture though. We'd gone out celebrating with Backup and some of the others, who I think were almost as glad to see us home as we were to be there.

She'd made us pose for the photo, and we're standing with an arm around each other's shoulders. I've got a bottle in one hand, Sam has a glass in his and we're both grinning, raising a toast to the camerawoman.

It was a brilliant evening, even though the grazes stood as testament to a less than pleasant past. Why does it always seem to end up with one of us hurt? It's almost as if it's deliberate, as if there's some giant conspiracy to get us into as much trouble and to do as much damage as possible. Maybe that should serve as a warning of how this is all going to end.

And yet, we always pull through. Whatever happens, however terrible, at the end of the day we always survive more or less intact. A few broken bones, a bit of surgery maybe but we always make it. Can I realistically hope that the same will happen in this case?

I guess it all comes down to your point of view. Whether you view the world through rose tinted glasses (or rose smelling ones, if you're Malone), or if your cloud never has a silver lining.

Me? I'll settle for a cautious optimism. At least until I'm told otherwise.

I glance back at the photo again, and this time I'm struck by the deep maroon shirt he's wearing. Between that and the broad smile, he looks as if he's come straight from the pages of some fashion magazine. All he needs is a pair of dark glasses. 

There's no sign of the cold exterior he sometimes hides behind, or the ruthless streak he uses when we're working.

He's just Sam; my partner and friend, and in this moment at least, the fact that I'm starting to wish he could be more than that does nothing to spoil my reflections.

What manages to do exactly that, however, is the phone that breaks the silence as it starts ringing. The handset is buried in clutter at the other side of the room somewhere, and even if I could be bothered to move, the answer phone will kick in before I could get to it. So I stay where I am, and listen as my message begins.

"Hi, it's Chris, which I'm sure you already know. I'm not in, so leave a message if you want to."

As the machine beeps, I suddenly wonder if it's Backup, or Malone with news of Sam. But it's not - it's Kirsten.

"Chris, darling, it's me," she begins. For the briefest of seconds I contemplate getting up, before deciding against it. I'm too comfortable here. "I haven't heard from you for a few days, but I'm free this weekend, so...call me!"

I sigh. We haven't spoken since that fiasco at the restaurant, over a week ago. If I'm honest, she hasn't even crossed my mind since then. Though it's not like I have to think of an excuse why I haven't called. While I can hardly tell her I was caught in an explosion in the Middle East since she thinks I'm a record promoter, I look a wreck, though and can easily come up with a reason why. I'll tell her I was caught in a rampaging mob of Britney fans or something.

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

Khaled makes an appearance two days later and saunters into my room. He's a striking looking youth - probably in his early twenties and with that easy grace the Arabs so often have.

The only thing that detracts from his looks - and even then I'm not sure, is the fact that his right arm is missing from just below the shoulder.

His English is American-flavoured but fairly fluent, and he slides onto the stool beside my bed and launches into a series of questions about - of all things - what's happening on the X-files. Apparently the television satellite in the village is broken and he's missing Mulder and Scully on Saturday nights 'real bad.' I think I’m a major disappointment to him as I gave up on the whole thing way back, deciding that I could live without slime monsters creeping out of the drains. Now if Chris were around, he'd be able to help there, as he's really into UFOs and stuff. 

Even the thought of Chris makes me swallow back the worries that have been running around my mind non-stop since I've been in a state to do so.

I've eaten whenever food's been offered, promising myself to get strong and find out what's happened to him. I've even pushed myself to the limits physically, pottering shakily around the place until I’ve been bundled back into bed. I can hardly believe I've been out of it for so long, but on the first morning after I started being aware of very much, a much older and toothless woman appeared and I remembered her. She was another shadowy figure hovering around on the edge of my consciousness during those lost days and I seem to remember taking sips of water or the foul-tasting antibiotic from her. 

This was Grandma, Samira said, doing the introductions bit before disappearing. The old lady doesn't speak anything but Arabic but cooks up a mean vegetable soup and has a toothless version of her daughter’s smile. She seems to look after the place during the day, when there are just the two of us there. 

Obviously, nobody thinks I’m going to make a run for it and quite right they are – I feel like I’ve been steamrollered but I think I see an improvement already and grudgingly feel grateful for the regular doses of whatever they’re giving me. 

Most of all, however, I've been alone with my thoughts. The house is fairly small, but there are two tiny bedrooms - one of which is currently inhabited by me - in addition to a sort of living room-cum-kitchen with a sleeping corner and a minuscule, simple bathroom and toilet. 

The house is on the edge of a village, and the views from the window are of barren, semi-desert. From what I've gathered, we're in somewhere in the West Bank. I've also been informed by Khaled that his mother is in fact a qualified doctor and runs some sort of a clinic here. 

Khaled tells me he was a student of philosophy and psychology ‘before’. Apparently he's now doing 'other things', whatever they may be. I’d ask him more, but Samira chases him out of my room, berating him – I think – for tiring me out. I wish I’d asked him for the phone there and then, but the X-files and my exertions (shave, toilet and a few hours on the terrace) have worn me out.

I hope to find him the following morning, but he’s not there. I make telephone gestures to Grandma who shakes her head energetically. There’s a holdall in the sleeping corner that must belong to him, and although the temptation to rifle through it as soon as I get a chance is enormous, hoping to find a mobile, something stops me – and not just the family chef who is dicing courgettes with frightening precision.

Khaled comes back during the afternoon, though, so I ask. He doesn't have it, he says. Only when 'the others' are with him. Oh yes, there are several phones in the village, but the connections aren't 'secure'. He's fairly forthcoming, suddenly, giving me a brief thumbnail sketch of the strange existence of Palestinian and Israeli settlements almost rubbing shoulders and how it’s imperative that certain ‘rules’ are adhered to. Keeping me here is probably breaking one of those, although nobody’s stopped me from going outside the house and I’ve even seen a few people around. Nobody seems curious about me, which means either they’re used to Samira playing hostess to strangers, or discretion is another of the regulations.

He doesn't mind the Israelis, Khaled says at one point, except the raiding parties who are pigs and thieves. I raise my eyebrows and look pointedly as his arm.

"Oh, that wasn't in battle or anything – it was a car accident," he grins. "We don't all go running around with guns, you know."

I'm not sure, suddenly, whether he knows I personally do exactly that, but he doesn't go into that and rushes off again. I wonder what he was doing near to Al Khayal’s compound, but asking him straight out might not go down well. I’ve not had that much contact with Arabs, but know enough to add a few subtleties to a conversation. To take my time before coming out with direct questions. It’s just bloody frustrating. 

Hoping he’ll expand a bit more on it all, I go back to Samira's books I've been trying to read to pass the time. French classics, most of them, but it's made a change from just staring into the distance. Time drags, though, and I spend most of it thinking about Chris, Richards and Backup. 

Later that night, I'm feeling despondent and even Grandma's gestures that I should eat don't improve matters although I dutifully force down a little chewy bread. Khaled isn't around, and I'm starting to wonder whether this bloody phone actually exists.

Afterwards, I go out onto the tiny terrace and perch on a rickety chair out there, looking at the stars. Part of me is fatalistic – I know I'm not exactly in any shape to go hitch-hiking up north even if they've decided to let me loose at some point. I have no money – although I expect I could try and steal some. That is, if I didn't owe these people enough already. And I'm dressed in some elderly sweat pants – Khaled's, I suppose and a loose linen shirt with some elderly sandals. Not exactly equipped for the long haul, even if I had the strength. 

The other part of me just needs to know what's happened to Chris and Backup, and almost as an afterthought I suppose I should tell somebody I'm alive, just supposing that there’s anybody left to care. Malone, I think, may be more worried I'm spilling CI5's secrets than whether or not I'm in good health.

No, that's not fair – I’d like to think he actually cares although I honestly don’t know, stony-faced bastard that he is. At least, I reflect, and very much in keeping with our beloved leader's ‘need to know’ principle, apart from a few sketchy details of this case and one contact name in Jerusalem (that probably won’t be a real one anyway) – Malone is at the very least thorough. I'm not going to be very useful even if my adoptive carers or their friends turn out to be closet torturers. 

I hear a sound behind me and whirl around, which is a mistake. The neat stitches in my side protest, and once again I curse my weakness.

“Thinking, Jean?” Samira says, pulling the other chair over.

“A lot,” I admit. “And I’ve never said thanks.”

“Oh, you have,” she says thoughtfully. “First, and as I said before, because there are many people would have been happy to see Al Khayal taken away from here and at least you tried, whoever you are. And second because you are being patient and polite, despite your frustration.”

I nearly tell her I’m not quite as virtuous as I seem, but I’m both relieved and flattered. It leads me to ask a rather impertinent question, but I think she’s spent enough time in the brusque western world to take it and doesn’t lose her cool.

“So Khaled being around Al Khayal’s place was a coincidence? Or wasn’t I the only one who wanted to take him out?” 

“Khaled was… returning from a discussion. We had heard a rumour that Khayal was packing up and moving out in a hurry, and he took a short detour from his usual route to see if he could find out more. Information is everything, Jean.”

I can’t argue with her on that.

“And that’s what you specialise in? Information?”

This time, she frowns but still answers me.

“Something like that. I have… some sympathy with what the Israelis are trying to do here, with this land they are fighting so bitterly for. Some of them, as Khaled has probably told you, are good people and our friends. Others are more violent, like those you ran into.”

“The same could be said for the Palestinians,” I murmur, then wish I hadn’t, but she doesn’t seem unduly shocked.

“Like some Palestinians, I agree. But Al Khayal is not one of us. He is paid to make trouble by those who would not only like the Jewish cause to fail but for it to involve bloodshed, no matter whose. The problem here is not as simple as you might think.”

I agree with her, seeing her looking sad, suddenly, and wondering where her husband might be. That’s one thing I’m not going to ask.

She smiles, then, glancing over to the elderly paperbacks on the table.

“You’ve been reading, I see. It’s a shame I don’t have any Camus or Voltaire, if we’re going to talk about good and evil.”

I grin, looking at the Maupassant and Dumas I’ve been flicking through.

“Oh, Dumas deals with it to some extent. The Musketeers weren’t exactly as white as snow. But Camus and “L’étranger” does go a bit deeper than three guys in wigs having a few swordfights.” 

She laughs, then. 

“You like literature as well as engineering then?” The arched eyebrow is a little sardonic.

“I studied French literature in England. But yes, I liked it and a lot of the major themes fascinated me. Because some things never change – who’s good and who’s bad depends to a large extent what side you’re on.”

“Indeed,” she says. “And a philosopher, too.” There’s no edge to her voice, and even in the late dusk I can see her smiling. 

“Probably more of a realist or a cynic,” I say softly. “Somebody’s terrorists are usually somebody else’s freedom fighters. It depends how – or if – you can justify the means.”

“True,” she says thoughtfully. “And you? You work because of money or ideals? Do you care whether your goals are the right ones, or do you even know what the right ones are?”

“Sometimes I wonder,” I tell her truthfully. “But I have a boss who says that the innocent need protecting, and they deserve fighting for.”

Her eyebrows raise, and she nods slowly. 

“There, Jean, I have to agree with you. And a lot of innocent people suffer greatly at the hands of a few politicians and warmongers who consider us as pawns in their games.”

It’s a strange moment, this. As though a current of understanding is building up between us, despite my bitterness and her ethnic roots. 

“There will always be pawns,” I add, after thinking for a minute. “But with a bit of luck there will also be people who fight the warmongers and the terrorists on their own terms.”

“More philosophy from your boss?” she says lightly, and I shake my head.

“No, it’s the way I justify – or used to – what I do. I like to think I’m on the ‘right’ side, but I’m not always sure what that is. People suffer… whatever the cause and whichever side of the fence they’re on.”

“And a humanist to boot,” the low voice says, almost to herself. “You are a complex man, Jean. I think if I understand correctly, you are concerned about your family at this moment too. And your friends - the people you were with at Al Khayal’s compound.”

Does she have news? I’m too tired to disguise my need to know, but she shakes her head.

“No, I have no information on that, and would tell you if I have. But tomorrow, I shall tell Khaled to lend you the mobile phone… please….” She halts me with a brief gesture before I get too enthusiastic. “This is against our rules, but it is not the first time they have been broken.”

Rules again. But if I can get my hands on a means of communication, I’m prepared to abide by them. She’s still speaking, but even now my heart’s beating faster, knowing that I’m going to find out what I so badly need to know.

“Calls can be located. Some… groups active in this country have sophisticated equipment now. When telephoning sensitive destinations, we restrict ourselves to thirty seconds. It is enough to get a message across, and yet our information leads us to believe that anyone with access to our conversations cannot trace it with any degree of accuracy.”

“Fair enough,” I tell her, wondering what CI5’s equipment can handle these days. Not that I even want one of our teams to roll up for me here even if they did get a fix on it. Which I tell her. This seems to please her a lot.

“Khaled goes to Tel Aviv often. He will be leaving tomorrow afternoon, but you are not strong enough and we cannot provide the documents you will need to travel yet. Perhaps the next time you can go with him. I shall make the necessary arrangements. From there, I am sure you can contact your people again.”

Yes, I can, I agree, hoping that Malone’s contact still remembers the non-existent team that messed up a non-existent mission and got one of its members killed into the bargain. Or several. I shudder, suddenly and Samira motions me inside.

“Sleep, Jean. I hope you have good news of your Chris tomorrow.”

So do I.

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

Moping around CI5 Headquarters these past few days has been driving me insane, but right at this second, I’d give anything to be back there, staring resentfully at all the people who can walk without awkward sticks of metal, and who aren’t desperately waiting for news of a…a loved one.

Anything would have to be better than here.

It’s not going to get any better, either. Not ever.

He’s just one more name on the long list of people killed working for CI5. Is that all this comes down to in the end? A small stone plaque on a wall in a cemetery, and a plot of land amongst all the other CI5 operatives who have been buried and mourned. Except that John Richards doesn’t even have that, does he?

Because while we’re all gathered here paying our last respects and trying not to look as if we’ve broken Malone’s precious First Rule by being upset, in a sense this is just a formality.

There’s no body to bury. 

There’s nothing in the casket that Spencer and a few select others just carried up the aisle of the church. John’s final resting place isn’t a quiet, dignified cemetery in a leafy suburb of Greater London; it’s a devastated building in the middle of a desert in Israel. 

And that’s what we’ve all got to look forward to from the future, unless we have enough sense to get out of CI5 before it’s too late.

John was a popular guy, and the small chapel is practically full with mourners, all waiting as quietly as possible for the music to stop and the vicar to take his place at the lectern. There isn’t even the usual shuffling of feet and coughs you expect as background noise when a crowd of people are trying to be quiet. 

Then again, there never are at funerals. It’s almost like a spell – as soon as you walk into a chapel, or church, it really doesn’t even matter exactly where, silence descends and blocks out every noise except for two.

The voice of the vicar, or whoever is paying the tribute, and the sound of the crying relatives.

Trust me on this. I’ve been to enough funerals in my life that I can recount what happens, what it feels like to go through from memory.

I hate coming to these things. Always have done, ever since I went to over a dozen funerals in the space of a few weeks after the wedding.

It never gets any easier.

The gentle, quiet music finally dies (oh that’s good, Chris) away, and the vicar steps up to the lectern, shuffling his papers before he speaks.

“John Alexander Richards was a kind, compassionate man, with strong ideals that he adhered to right up until his death. A man who courted danger on a daily basis in an attempt to make the world a better place…”

I mentally tune out the words. I’ve heard them a thousand times before, and find myself wondering irrelevantly just what the vicar was told that John did for a living. I very much doubt he was told that we all work for CI5, though maybe he was, if this is the ‘officially sanctioned’ cemetery for agents. God, what on earth does it say about our jobs, that one of the ‘perks’ is a fucking funeral plan and cemetery plot?

That the family are here makes things doubly awkward. While most families tend to accept what their relatives do for a living, even if they haven’t been told the full truth, when the worst happens and that relative is killed in the line of duty, there’s obviously going to be some resentment.

Even now one of the men in the front pew, John’s brother I think, keeps sending angry glances across the church to where the CI5 group, myself included, are stood.

I very much doubt that it will come to anything, the English (thank God) are too reserved for that, but the tension in the air is palpable.

I don’t want to be here.

I don’t want to be reminded that we failed, that someone I was close to died, and that someone I was closer still to is missing.

Everyone around me stands up and reaches for their hymn books. Thanks to the crutches I’m pathetically reliant on at the moment it takes me a few seconds longer to get to my feet, and I stumble slightly as I try to get my balance. Backup gets a hand under my elbow to steady me, before wordlessly handing me a hymn book.

The organ starts playing, and as the subdued singing begins I glance across to Tina. She’s staring resolutely ahead, singing quietly but calmly without once glancing at the book in front of her, and I’m surprised for a second before I remember that she went to a Catholic Convent and can probably recite the lyrics to these things on cue.

It’s been much too long since I went to church, and I have to use the words.

On the second verse the singing is even quieter than before, and I find myself glancing back to Tina as I sing. She still seems calm, but after a few seconds she turns slightly and meets my gaze. For a second I can see the tears welling up in her eyes, and realise just what it’s costing her to stay composed, before she turns her head away.

I lean my weight slightly on my good leg, lean one of the crutches against the pew in front and take Backup’s hand in mine. She glances up at me again, surprise warring with the grief, before managing a shaky smile and squeezing my hand.

After the singing is over and we’re all seated again, John’s brother, (Paul, I think his name is) walks over to the lectern to read the eulogy. He talks openly, warmly about John, and keeps glancing over to me and Backup. It must be common knowledge amongst the family that we were the last people to see him alive. And even if it wasn’t, the crutches and the gash across my temple must make it pretty obvious.

There’s no real malice in his expression anymore, instead a weary resignation, but his scrutiny makes me uncomfortable all the same.

Towards the end of his speech he stops looking at us, and his voice becomes less even, more emotional. Even so, he manages to keep it together long enough to finish the speech and walk off the podium. I can’t help but admire the quiet dignity that he and his whole family are displaying. It must run in the family, because it’s something I always liked in John himself.

Paul did better than I did when I read my brother’s eulogy. I couldn’t finish the speech I gave that day, and had to be practically carried off the podium. My brother’s funeral was the last of them all, and by then I couldn’t take any more.

John’s family has my strongest sympathy, and my deepest respect.

The funeral doesn’t take long, and we’re soon all walking out into the cool summer breeze. It’s only now that I realise that almost all the family are crying, and most of the CI5 personnel as well. 

Only Malone stands apart. His eyes are dry, but I know him enough to know that he’s grieving in his own way. Even if I had thought he was being cold, I can’t help but notice that his hand is shaking slightly as he hands Rebecca a handkerchief, since she doesn’t appear to have one of her own.

Backup is still at my side, and we’re still hand in hand. I think she knows how difficult this is for me, and while that might sound selfish, given that Richards wasn’t a family member, she’s giving me what support she can, and I’m grateful.

We stand slightly apart from the others, silently looking out over the peaceful cemetery. Neither of us speaks for a while, but then Backup pulls something out of her jacket pocket and hands it to me. At first I take it without realising what it is. 

It’s a tissue.

I frown slightly, confused, but on seeing my confusion she touches her eye, and it’s only then that I realise I’m crying along with everyone else.

I wipe the tears away, before bending down slightly and wrapping my arms around her. We lean against each other for a few minutes before she pulls away and smiles weakly at me.

“Thanks,” she all but whispers.

She takes my hand again, and slowly we walk down through the mass of people, pause briefly at the mass of coloured flowers lined up on a concrete walkway, before continuing on to stand at the wall of remembrance, where all the names of every CI5 agent lost in the line of duty (and some who died of natural causes) are carved.

John’s is already there, the last in a long line of those who have fallen. I glance idly up through the list. Many of the names are nothing but that, names I don’t recognise. Others like John, Wilmot, and Tom Perry before him, I knew personally.

Then there are those that I’ve heard of, agents from years back who are all known, even if none of us ever met them. George Cowley is there, of course, as is Edward Murphy and William Bodie, who are almost as famous as the founder of CI5 himself. William Bodie – the former Agent 3.7.

I finally find my voice again, as the fear I’ve been trying to push away all day demands my attention again.

“Are we going to be back here again in a few days?” I ask Tina. “Is Sam Curtis going to be the next name on the list?” 

My voice breaks even at the thought of it, and she squeezes my hand once again before putting an arm round me, and sighing.

“I don’t know, Chris,” she whispers back. “I just don’t know.”

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

When Khaled hands me the phone, he's smiling. Me, I'm nervous.

He's got his watch ready for those all-important thirty seconds. Me, I've been living without a watch for so long I feel as though time's expanded and retracted to the point where my only point of reference consists of mealtimes plus day and night, unless Khaled's around with his fake Rolex. 

Even Grandma's beaming at me beatifically. Me, my hands are shaking despite myself even though I've been mentally rehearsing all I want to say and find out in those precious jumps of the second hand.

All we need now is for the person on the other end to be Geraldine. Our outside line for cases like this, which goes under the name of a purely fictitious security company, is always manned of course and those who answer it are supposed to be intuitive and intelligent. It's just that Geraldine, in my opinion, is only just slightly quicker off the draw than Kirsten. She goes for thorough rather than rapid despite Malone's highly precise instructions. Chris, I recall, once said she had good legs but right now I'm more interested in her reactions. 

I even get the number wrong, but pull up before it starts ringing and redial. Is that an omen?

Probably. It's Geraldine.

"This is Chris' partner," I tell her quickly. "No names, please. Pass me Sunray, quickly."

She hesitates and I wish I could strangle her.

"Sunray?" she says, wasting precious seconds. "Just a minute, but I think…"

"Hurry, please," I say, trying to stay calm. "You do know who's speaking?"

"Well yes," she says, after far too long has passed. "But he's out. I can try his mobile, although…"

"Listen, then," I say. "I'm okay. I'm a fair way from the first rendezvous and can't reach any other contact point at the moment. When I do, I'll need to contact the number I was given to arrange for extraction or some means of getting back. Nothing to compromise the company has happened. You're getting this?"

"Yes," she says calmly, so I hope at least she's recording it. 

"I'll try and get in touch within a few days," I add, and then see Khaled's fingers raised, which is my signal that I only have a few seconds.

"When shall I inform Sunray to expect more news?" she asks.

"Can't give you a definite date. I don't have much time. But about the others… did they make it?"

"Others?" she says, sounding puzzled. Then I lose it.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, woman. The *others*. Did they get out? Chris and Backup?"

She hesitates for a second as Khaled reaches for the phone and I feel like screaming, but she's saying something.

"Well…I don't know if…"

"If *what*," I try to interrupt, but she's obviously trying to couch whatever she's going to say in suitable terms, and she doesn't realise just how fast my time's running out. In fact it's run out completely because Khaled has taken the phone and snapped it closed. 

I try to take a deep breath, but the shaking's back, reminding me I'm still in lousy shape and I'm not much wiser. What the hell did the "I don't know if" mean? They're dead? Missing? Died from their injuries and she doesn't know how to break it? Is one or both of them in Intensive Care? Maimed for life? 

Chris was down… Oh, Jesus, this is killing me. 

When a hand touches me on the shoulder I jump, but it's Samira, who isn't at work this afternoon for some reason. 

"You had some news?" she asks softly in French, and I shake my head.

"Not really," I tell her, angry that I sound choked. I feel like wrestling Khaled to the ground and calling back but I think between him, Samira and Grandma I'm wasting my battery. I expect they have rules about not making more than one call a fucking week or something, as well.

I take myself off to the terrace, and ignore the tatty paperbacks. I have to get out of here, and need whatever papers, transport and everything else it takes. Fast. 

Khaled comes and joins me, looking a bit miserable. 

"Sorry, John," he says. No French version of my name for this 'dude' as he calls himself. I'm really not in the mood for conversation, but I do my best.

"No phone for a day or two, I suppose," I say resignedly.

"Gotta go to the big city. But I should be back in another few days. You can try again – maybe we'll get you some papers by then. These things take time."

Sure they do. I sigh, unable to dredge up any kind of polite response.

"Hey," he says. "C'mon. We'll take you out tonight. Meet some of our friends. Talk."

"About the X-files?" I say, bitterly, and it's his turn to sigh, twisting his mouth in a grimace that reminds me of Chris' similar version when he's pissed off.

"No, just talk. We don't need to do politics or anything – just thought you might like to get out of here. Mum says you're stronger now and you need to cheer up."

I feel guilty, now. These people actually seem to care.

"I'd like that," I tell him quietly. "Thanks."

"Would be better if I can get hold of a few beers," he chuckles. "But as you can guess…"

"Against the regulations? Besides, you're Muslim," I chide him fairly gently.

"Nah. Nothing to do with religion. Just can't get the damn stuff here. Didn't bring any over from Tel Aviv this week either. Things are getting pretty hot in parts. A few more troubles brewing, I think. The stupid politicians aren't getting their act together."

"Do they ever?" I ask, thinking of the Minister now and Malone's own thoughts on the subject.

"Not often," he admits. "We hoped that with Al Khayal out of here it might calm down, but it hasn't. God knows where he is now."

"Shouldn't that be Allah?"

"Same guy, buddy," Khaled says wearily. "Or that's how I see it, anyhow. 

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

I make my various excuses and leave pretty quickly after the funeral. Increasingly all my thoughts keep drifting back to Sam, and standing in a cemetery is just a little bit too close for comfort at the moment. 

Of course, I hit a snag in my grand plan pretty quickly. Walking away from the other gatherers, I’m half way to the car park before I remember that I don’t have my car here. I’m under doctor’s orders not to drive until my leg has healed properly, so people have been driving me round for the last few days. The taxi firms near my house must think it’s Christmas. 

Sighing, I lean one of the crutches tentatively against my leg as I fumble for the phone in my jacket pocket. Before I’ve even got my hand on the phone, the crutch is slipping, and clatters loudly to the ground. I ignore it. I mean, I was the fastest sprinter in my SEAL unit, surely I can stand upright without help for a minute or two?

I’m waiting for my phone to finish switching itself on when I sense a presence nearby, and look up to see Backup heading my way. She reaches down and picks up the crutch before handing it back to me and plucking the phone out of my hand.

“What are you doing, Chris?”

“Going home,” I reply. “I was just about to call a taxi.”

“There’s no need. I’ll run you home.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I don’t want to drag you away from here.”

She manages a wry smile. “You’re not. I don’t want to stay here much longer.”

“Thanks Backup.”

She hands me her car keys. “Go sit in the car. I’d better just tell Malone where we’re going, then I’ll be with you.”

I nod, and she turns to head back to the rest of the group. Malone is talking quietly with John’s family, offering his condolences I guess, and she moves uncertainly over to stand by him, obviously not wanting to intrude. Adjusting the crutches I start walking slowly towards the car park, before settling myself into the passenger seat of her car.

Backup reappears before too long, and slides gracefully into the driver’s seat. She sits quietly for a moment, obviously deep in thought, before mentally shaking herself and starting the engine.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, and I nod my acceptance of the obvious lie. I know how she feels.

The drive back to my apartment is silent, and gives me way too much time to think. Everything is such a mess. I’d give anything to make things right, but I have this horrible feeling that it’s too late for that.

Nothing I do will bring John back. Or Sam. I wonder where he is? I might never find out what happened after the explosion, because Sam is the only one who knows. People at HQ are starting to get discouraged, being forced to turn to other things, other cases. No one has said anything, and certainly not to me, but the search has been scaled down in all but name, I know that. 

Increasingly it’s all down to Sam, and I have a horrible feeling that he’s going to have to get himself out of this one.

In an equally horrible way, if I’m never going to get Sam back, I’d almost rather his name was on the Wall of Remembrance back at the cemetery. At least then there’d be some closure, I’d know something about what happened to him. Just because his name wasn’t on the wall, it doesn’t mean that he isn’t dead. The only way your name goes on the wall is if you have been confirmed dead. Agents who are Missing In Action might be presumed dead, but just in case, their names aren’t added. If Sam is never found, he’ll simply be conveniently forgotten, and it’ll be as if he never existed.

I’ve heard Sam complain on more than one occasion that MI6 is notorious for ignoring agents once they’ve been killed, or retired, or gone missing. I wonder if he ever realised that a career in CI5 could end up the same way? Thinking about it though, he probably knew that all along. He always was more realistic about those kinds of things than me, less blinkered.

A sudden realisation shocks me out of my maudlin thoughts. I’ve been thinking about Sam in the past tense. As if he’s already dead.

No.

I won’t give up on him, no way. Until someone shows me his body, then as far as I’m concerned he’s still alive. Perhaps injured, maybe needing our help, I don’t know. But he’s alive, and that’s the most important thing.

I’ll find you Sam, I vow silently. Even if I have to do it alone, I’ll find you.

I promise.

 

~*~*~

 

We finally arrive back at my apartment, and Backup pulls up outside and kills the engine. There’s a moment of silence before she turns to me, looking uncertain.

“We’re here,” she mutters. Which is a fairly pointless statement, considering I recognise my home. Nice and quiet, and opposite a cemetery. Terrific. 

The perfect surroundings for the maudlin tone my thoughts seem to have taken. I sigh again; a long, shuddering sigh that seems to drain every scrap of energy from my body.

I’m so damn tired. Backup glances over, concern flittering over her small features, and I meet her gaze without bothering to conceal my exhaustion. She’s not stupid, she must have realised how little sleep I’ve had these past few days. Somehow I doubt she’s fared any better herself.

“Do you want to come up?” I ask dully, with an unspoken message behind the words. I don’t want to be alone.

She nods, and we slowly make our way up to my apartment. She deliberately slows her pace to allow me to keep up, and I’m pathetically grateful. Climbing the dozen or so steps up into my living room practically wipes me out, and I sink gratefully down into the nearest chair.

Backup walks in behind me, glances out the window at the rows of tombstones that the estate agent called ‘peaceful surroundings’, and promptly pulls the blinds down. I’m grateful. Usually I find the view calming, but today it’s just creepy. With the blinds down I might still know that it’s there, but at least I don’t have to look at it. She sits down in the chair opposite mine, and we stare down the floorboards for a while. 

I don’t have the slightest clue what to say to her. It’s not as if I can talk to her about what’s bothering me, is it? I mean, can you imagine? 

So, Backup. About Sam. I know you two used to go out, but do you think he’s interested in me? And did you see us kissing when you looked out the window?

I can only *imagine* the reaction I’d get to that one.

Besides, it’s all academic anyway. Agonising over whether or not I want to risk a more intimate relationship with him is a bit pointless, if I never see him again.

And here comes the pessimism again, Chris. Let’s see, the ‘must think positive’ attitude lasted all of about 3 minutes. You’re doing well.

Not that sarcasm is exactly a productive alternative, either.

Backup’s voice comes as a welcome break from my thoughts. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks softly.

“About what?”

“Why you’re unhappy, about what’s bothering you.”

“What do you want me to do an hour after Richards’ funeral, break open the champagne?”

“Chris…” her voice is clipped, angry, and I run a hand through my hair, curbing my irrational anger.

“Sorry Tina. I shouldn’t have said that.” She nods her acceptance, and waits patiently for me to continue. “I’m just worried about Sam.”

“We’ll find him, Chris,” she assures me, just like she has every day since I woke up in the hospital. I’m not prepared to accept that answer any more. I’m no longer a child, my world can’t be kissed and made better just because someone says so. Though, a small voice in my head adds, if Sam wanted to give the kissing thing a try, I wouldn’t say no. This time I raise my gaze from its intricate study of the floor and look at her.

“Do you honestly believe that?” I ask, albeit a bit sharper than I’d planned.

She looks at me for a moment, seemingly trying to decide whether to go for honesty or not, before she breaks away from my gaze and looks defeated.

“I want to,” she whispers. “But no, I’m not sure.”

Somehow, someone else giving my own fears a voice makes them seem even worse than before. Much more real.

“We should have gone back for him,” I mutter. “We shouldn’t have left him.”

“We didn’t have a choice, Chris.”

“I know.” But that doesn’t make things any easier.

“Everything’s such a mess, Backup,” I whisper. “And I don’t think I can fix them this time.”

I just wish I could see him again. Even if it was just for five minutes. To say the things I never found the guts to say when I had the chance. If I could have one last chance to say goodbye.

“Just one last chance,” I whisper, more to myself than to Backup.

“One last chance for what, Chris?” she asks.

“To say goodbye. To sort things out.” 

She frowns and stands up, going over to the table and pouring out two fingers of whiskey. Now why didn’t I think of that?

“What is it you want to sort out?” she asks, handing me the glass and sitting down beside me. “What was going on between the two of you before he went missing, Chris?”

I laugh, bitterly. “Where would you like me to start?”

“Wherever you want.”

So supportive. She’s a good friend. I wonder whether, if I tell her what was really going on, she’ll still want to be as kind. Well, there’s only one way to find out, I suppose.

So I tell her. I tell her everything. About my father, some of my past, but mainly about Sam. My hopes, my fears, what happened between us, and what didn’t.

To her credit, she hears me out, saying nothing till I’ve worn myself out and run out of words. 

At some point during the tale the whiskey bottle has migrated from the table to the floor by my feet, and as I finish, I pour us both another glass, and knock mine back before pouring another. The alcohol burns my throat on the way down, and provides a welcome shock to my exhausted system.

Backup is staring down at the floor, and doesn’t speak.

I sigh. “Are you going to walk out?” I ask quietly. I know that can’t have been easy for her to listen to, if she feels what I think she feels for Sam.

She glances up after a second and our eyes meet. I can’t tell what she’s thinking.

“Backup?” I prompt.

My mobile rings before she can answer, and I curse quietly as I answer it.

“Keel.”

It’s Malone.

“We’ve had some news about Mr. Curtis,” he begins, and I instantly forget everything else.

Sam. Oh God.

I’m not sure that I’m ready to hear this.

“What’s happened?” I ask, dreading the answer.

Malone hesitates for a second before answering. “You should come into headquarters, Mr. Keel,” he says.

Well what the hell does that mean?

“Sir?”

Backup is watching me intently now, obviously aware that this is important.

“Not over an open line, Mr. Keel,” Malone snaps, though I can hear his concern beneath the automatic reproach. “Come into headquarters.”

You never give people bad news over the phone. Always tell them in person. Always make sure they’re not alone. I can almost quote the manual. 

He’s dead. They’ve found a body.

“Yes, sir,” I reply dully.

Backup is already on her feet, reaching for the keys.

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

For an hour or two, I suppose I almost forget the ever-present worries. 

I end up in a house similar to Samira's but a couple of hundred metres away, and I realise that although I'm tired after just that, it's already better than before. 

There are five of them there, and somebody's produced what actually looks like meat, unlike Grandma's offerings. I've wondered if Samira's a vegetarian or simply broke, but haven't asked. 

In fact, it's great and I find myself enjoying it, much encouraged by the others – Samira, Khaled, an older couple and a girl – Hamidah - who must be in her late twenties. I wonder if she's Khaled's girlfriend, but somehow I don't think so.

Surprisingly, they even produce a bottle of Algerian red wine and it's ceremoniously poured into five glasses. That tastes particularly good, and I wave away Samira's frowns. I had the last dose of her famous antibiotics that afternoon, thanks, I tell her.

The conversation's a strange mixture of English, French and Arabic, with everybody chipping in. What's even stranger is that although they do avoid politics, the unavoidable thread of cohabiting with the Israelis soon starts up. I'm becoming more and more used to this, and can't help admiring them, even if I think it's rather Utopian.

No, the older man insists. They'll make it work, if only they can get rid of those who are stirring it up. And no, they won't take up arms. That's not their way.

Khaled flashes a look across at me, and I feel I'm supposed to react. So I give them a potted version of old Cowley's theories, and Malone's version, and end up rather lamely, by saying I'm doing my job. Hardly the stuff to convince anybody because even as I'm explaining I wonder if I believe it any more. They all nod understandingly and Hamidah even pats my arm. 

The night before, with Samira, I'd almost felt as though I was making some sort of difference by ridding the world of its more ruthless terrorists. But then I'd been hoping for more information on the phone. Tonight I just feel as though nobody can ever sort this mess in the Middle East out, and least of all me.

I tell them I respect their approach, which seems to meet with approval, and luckily more food – this time unbelievably sweet pastries - arrives to save this topic from going to places I might regret. Somebody turns an elderly radio on, and slowly the talk turns to more general things. 

We talk about food (I avoid the frogs legs episode), about Arabic names, and I discover that Samira is a 'pleasant female companion' whereas Hamidah tells me, giggling, that hers means 'praiseworthy.' Her mother frowns, then sighs indulgently when the young lady in question starts humming along with the music.

The food and wine have made me drowsy and I let my thoughts drift a little as Khaled and Miss Praiseworthy start what seems a fairly deep discussion. They 'work together', Samira tells me softly. But are not betrothed. Hamidah is highly progressive, too, apparently, but not a bad girl for all that. She certainly looks intelligent, and the tight jeans and t-shirt are a long way from Samira's own much more traditional approach. 

I'm vaguely studying her and telling myself that really, I'd rather have Chris in my arms when a sound makes them all fall silent, instantaneously.

It's a gunshot. Followed by a couple more and then I pick out the sound of vehicles, of which there are few in the village and virtually none at night. More regulations, I suppose.

Samira tells me to stay put and immediately leaves with Khaled, telling me she may be needed and has to be where people can find her. No, she says, I can stay where I am. For some reason, this irritates me and I get up as well and follow them out. They don't argue, but I do notice that they're extremely wary as they move. 

I wish I had a gun.

Only a few minutes after we've got inside, somebody starts hammering at the door and two women bring in a bloodstained youth who turns out to have been peppered by air rifle pellets. Then, a few minutes later, it's an older man, leaning on his wife. He too is bloodied, but like the first arrival he's stoic enough.

Khaled exchanges a few words with his mother and disappears, so I find myself fetching hot water and playing gopher for a while. When the third casualty arrives – a kid no more than about ten, with his father, I presume, Samira permits herself a tiny noise of anger. He only has a flesh wound in his arm, but my anger is mounting with every minute that passes. 

"Israeli raiding parties?" I ask Samira in between fetching more clean bandages, watching Grandma hand out hot, sweet tea.

"Obviously," she snaps, then looks at me in despair. "We haven't had them for months – it was bound to happen. But we're lucky. It has been worse."

"And you can't defend yourself?" I ask, looking at the kid trying hard not to cry.

"Jean, this is not the time for this conversation," she says coldly, applying herself to the task. I pass her another clean compress and keep my mouth shut. 

Finally, the patients all file out. Khaled returns later and says the raiders have gone, and by this time I'm sitting drinking a brandy that Samira's broken out for the occasion, medicinal or not. It appears to have sent Grandma to sleep but I'm wide awake and angry.

"I'm sorry," Samira says, watching me down my glass.

"Don't be," I say, softly. "I'm sorry too. I couldn't help thinking…"

"Guns are not our way. That is all," she says, looking infinitely weary. "Go to bed now. They will probably not return tonight."

They don't, but it takes me a long, long time to sleep.

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

Backup drives, and I will be eternally grateful to her for getting us to headquarters so quickly. I’m desperate to find out what’s happened, to know one way or another. So much so that I’m climbing out of the car almost before she’s screeched to a halt in the car park. 

She doesn’t comment on my hurry, though. I’m not even sure that she notices, since she seems almost as desperate to hear the news as I am. 

Neither of us said a word during the drive, not about Malone’s call, or about the things I’d said back at my flat. Not that any of that matters right now. Backup’s reaction to the revelation that we’re both attracted to the same person, (and that, if my hopes are fulfilled he returns my attraction rather than hers) pale into insignificance at finding out what has happened to him. The inevitable second chapter of that conversation has been filed firmly into the To Be Continued box. It’s not important. Sam would be proud.

But at the same time, as we’re waiting in the lift to take us up to the Operations room, I don’t want to hear what Malone has to say.

Because if the news is bad…

No, I shake myself. Come on Chris, pull yourself together. Deal with the news, good or bad, when you know what it is. Imagining worst-case scenarios right now does nobody any good.

The lift takes forever, and I long to be able to take the stairs three at a time as usual, but in my current physical condition I might as well be shooting for the moon. So I wait as patiently as I know how, and manage to hold back from punching the panels in frustration long enough to get me to the right floor.

Stepping off the lift, Backup and I make our way down the corridor and into the Operations suite. There’s a renewed sense of urgency surrounding the people gathered round their various monitors, even if it’s not our regular crew. Most of the people who usually work the important cases in CI5 attended Richards’ funeral. 

Okay, so this means one of two things. Either a) the news is bad, and there’s nothing important for CI5 to do except prepare another funeral, (shudder), or b) the news is good, and the usual crew are still making their way into CI5 ready to renew the search for Sam.

Good, logical thinking. You’re doing well, Chris.

Spencer comes round the corner, still dressed as we are in a formal black suit. Well, the attire suits our mood, at least. And the fact that he’s here bodes well for the ‘renewed search for Sam’ choice of the two.

Here goes nothing. Spencer starts slightly on seeing us, and then flashes me a slightly subdued smile.

“Spence?” Backup begins. “Malone called us in, he said…”

Spencer interrupts her, waving a hand to get her attention before gesturing into Malone’s office. “He said to send you both in as soon as you arrived.”

With that he moves off towards his desk, and I don’t get the chance to ask him what the news is. Oh well, I think resignedly, and set off on the long walk to Malone’s office. It seems to take fifteen times longer than usual. Maybe we should re-christen this The Green Mile.

Backup steps ahead of me and knocks before opening the door, and we both step inside. I could hear voices as we approached, and I might be going crazy, but one of them sounded suspiciously like Sam’s. That’s not very likely though, is it? I’m probably going nuts.

The voices stop abruptly as we enter, and Malone glances up before turning his attention back to his desk. We’re not the only ones here, though. Geraldine is sitting in one of three empty chairs spread out before his desk, and glances nervously up at me before returning her gaze to her lap.

What on earth is she doing here? I wonder. She’s certainly the last person I was expecting to see, though considering I was hoping, somewhat hopelessly, to see Sam sitting miraculously in front of me, anything else would have been a let down.

And she is. Gerry isn’t exactly the brightest spark in the plug, but she’s sweet enough. We get on quite well, though I know she tries Sam’s patience. One thing about Sam is that he can be a bit impatient, especially with people who aren’t quite as clever or intuitive as he is. So he gets annoyed when she doesn’t react quite as fast as she should over something.

I, on the other hand, like her. She’s not attractive, but she’s friendly, and we’ve quite happily spent the odd half hour chatting to each other about nothing.

But how she fits in with Malone having news about Sam, I have no idea. I plan to find out.

“Sir?” I start, before Malone has the chance to speak. “You said there was news…”

“Sit down, Mr. Keel, before you fall down,” Malone interrupts, though not unkindly. Is no one going to let me finish a sentence today? It’s not like I’m demanding anything unreasonable, but a straight answer once in a while would be nice. 

I do as he says, not wanting to waste any more time that necessary.

“We’ve heard from Mr. Curtis,” Malone continues, and I freeze for a second before sinking down into the plastic chair with a thud. Suddenly my mind is whirling, but I can’t seem to string a sentence together.

“You’ve…he…he’s alive?” I stutter.

Malone smiles at me and nods. “Yes. He called the front office while we were at the funeral.”

Damn. And I wasn’t here. I feel a second’s selfish anger at being out of the office, even for something as important as the funeral, before I quash it down.

“Where is he?” “Is he alright?” Backup and I speak together.

Malone ignores us and carries on talking. “The phone call was, of course, recorded,” he all but beams at this, before fiddling with a small tape recorder on the desk in front of him.

So I did hear Sam’s voice. Thank God for modern technology.

There’s a few moments static after he presses play, and then Geraldine’s voice can be heard.

“J B S Security, how may I help you?” she announces, in the slightly bored singsong voice found in all telephonists the world over.

“This is Chris’ partner…” It’s Sam. I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding, and relax slightly back into the chair. I never thought I’d be so glad to hear someone’s voice. It’s the next thing he says that catches my attention, and makes me frown. “No names please. Pass me Sunray, quickly.”

No names? Why? And he’s rushing, almost falling over his own words in his haste. Where is he? Is he still in trouble?

In contrast to his haste, Gerry’s response seems agonisingly slow. 

For the next few seconds I listen, my relief at hearing that he’s alive slowly draining away as he tries, and fails, to get information out of Geraldine. I notice both Malone and Backup glancing at her, obviously annoyed, and know I’m not the only one who’s realised what a mess she’s made of it.

She just carries on staring at the floor, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze.

Sam finally interrupts her hesitant stammering.

"…Oh, for Christ's sake, woman. The *others*. Did they get out? Chris and Backup?"

"Well…I don't know if…"

I look over at her again, amazed, and mentally take back everything I just said about Sam being impatient. What doesn’t she know? Gerry knew we’d both made it out alright. She came to visit me in the hospital for God’s sake! How difficult could it have been just to say yes?

The phone goes dead.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know we made it out alright.

Fuck.

Both Backup and I look at each other, shock clear on our faces, before looking back at Malone for some kind of explanation.

I can’t look at Geraldine again. I *can’t*. I’ll lose it completely if I do. Then I find myself speaking anyway. Not something I’d planned to say, but it seems like the voice in my head decided differently.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell him?” I begin, just managing to stop from shouting. “What were you thinking? I mean, for…”

“Mr Keel!” Malone snaps, but I can’t answer him. He tries again. “Chris!” That gets my attention. “I appreciate your concern,” he continues gently, “and I share it. But what’s done is done, and it can’t be helped now. At least we do know that he’s still alive.”

He’s right. At least we know that, even if we don’t know much else. 

Malone then turns to Geraldine. “That will be all, Miss Post. But think on what I said.” With that she is dismissed, and leaves the office without looking at either of us. Malone carries on speaking. “Now, the phone call was automatically traced, as all calls to our cover organisation are. Mr. Curtis wasn’t on-line long enough to get an exact fix, but we do, at least, have a place to start. Mr. Spencer is working on narrowing the search parameters down. Miss Backus, perhaps you could give him some help?”

She nods and gets up to leave, squeezing my shoulder in silent support as she passes me on her way to the door. I smile up at her, feeling able to do so properly for the first time since this whole goddamn mess began.

Once she has left I turn back to face Malone, wondering idly what I’m still doing sitting here. While I might not be as good with computers and electronics as Spence and Backup, now that I know Sam is alive and we’ve got some vague idea where he is, I want to help with the search. I need to do something. But, not wanting to bring the wrath of God (and in this job I mean that literally) down on my head by leaving without being dismissed, I sit quietly and say nothing like a good little agent.

Sam would be proud. I don’t do this often.

Malone watches at me for a few minutes, and I wonder if I’ve done something wrong. This is the kind of situation we normally find ourselves in after we’ve displeased him somehow. I think uneasily back over the hell of the past few days, but I can’t come up with anything. Unless he’s still annoyed that I discharged myself.

I’ve just started shifting nervously in my seat when Malone sighs and takes off his glasses, folding them neatly before placing them carefully onto his desk next to the tape recorder.

“You must be relieved, Mr. Keel,” he says.

More than you know, I think to myself, but stay content with simply saying “Yes, sir.”

“Oh, relax man,” Malone sighs and rolls his chair back slightly, leaning down to open a drawer beneath his desk. “I’m well aware of just how worried you’ve been about Sam’s disappearance, Chris.” 

Two ‘Chris’’ in the same conversation? To get one is unusual, but two is practically unheard of. He pulls out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, before deftly pouring us each a finger.

“A little habit I picked up from George Cowley,” he reveals, and I find myself glancing up at the picture on the wall. It’s been framed, I think idly. Last time I saw it, it was just pinned up. It must really mean something to Malone.

I accept the glass gratefully, deciding against revealing that I had another couple like it with Backup. Generosity like this from Malone should be savoured reverently, it happens so rarely.

“Now,” Malone continues, turning back to the business at hand. “While we’re all relieved that Sam is alive and apparently well, I still do have some concerns for his safety.”

I nod, agreeing with him. I know Sam well enough to know that the tone of his voice wasn’t quite right. He’s still worried about something, something more than just whether or not Backup and I made it out in one piece.

“The phone call was too rushed, sir. As if he was on the clock, or something.”

“Indeed,” Malone nods, then raises the glass up to his lips and takes a sip. “In fact, while we were waiting for you and Miss Backus to arrive, we timed the call itself.” 

Another strange thing. Any other time that sentence would have sounded like one of Malone’s mildly sarcastic rebukes, but it doesn’t today.

“The call was exactly thirty seconds, right down to the millisecond.”

I frown, starting to wonder if Sam is as safe as I first hoped. “He was timing himself. Or being timed, at least.”

“That was my surmise as well, Mr Keel. Now, you know Mr. Curtis’ mannerisms better than anyone else in this organisation. Perhaps your insight into this phone call will give us something more to go on.”

I nod, and he rewinds the machine, ready to go through Sam’s message with a fine toothcomb. As he does so, I reach for my glass and take a sip of whiskey.

There’s a knock at the door, and Spencer walks in. He stops short at the sight before him, and I can’t help grinning. I can only imagine how this looks. Malone sharing a relaxed drink with one of his agents? This is something we’re all much more used to seeing him do with the Minister, or perhaps at the end of a case if we’re lucky.

“Err, sorry for interrupting, sir,” Spence begins uncertainly. 

“Yes? What is it?”

“The Minister is on Line Two, sir.” Spence replies. 

Malone frowns. “Tell her I’m in an important meeting, Mr Spencer. And take a message.”

I just about manage not to spill drink anywhere in my surprise, and as Spence glances across at me, amazement clear on his face, I raise my glass to him in a silent toast, grinning.

He smiles, raises one eyebrow at me and then leaves. This one is going to be all over the office by the time we’re finished.

I turn back to Malone to find him watching me with the slightest of smiles ghosting across his face. I smile back. Sam’s alive, and whatever problems we might face in the future, for the moment nothing else matters.

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

I sleep badly – nightmares plague me like never before. Richards' eyes staring up, unseeing, are mixed with visions of bloodied, innocent victims earlier tonight. Then, of course, I dream of Chris. Chris leaning into me, kissing me… Kirsten laughing. 

At one point I wake up, bathed in sweat, and I must have been shouting because Samira's there, suddenly, bending over me.

"Sorry," I mutter. 

"Don't be," she says softly. "Relax, Jean."

"I have to leave," I say, the thought uppermost in my mind. "I have to get back, Samira."

She sighs. 

"I understand. Believe me, I know how much you feel trapped here. But the papers will come… trust me."

"I do trust you," I say wearily, taking the glass of water Grandma brings – I've obviously woken the whole family who are at least as much in need of sleep as myself. "It's just that I need to get back – even without papers."

"Jean," she says sadly, "we are doing our best. But you must understand – Khaled and Hamidah – and many of us here – are working for peace. You know that now. Unless you have some identity, you could create a great deal of trouble for us."

I grimace, but she's probably right. 

"Fine, then I'll – I'll take my chances on my own," I say. "I'll be all right."

She hesitates for a moment.

"Khaled could only take you a very short way – perhaps to where you can get a bus. But if there are controls…"

"I'll take the chance," I insist. "I have to…"

"We'll see," she says, ruffling my hair absently. It's a motherly gesture and feels strange, but she's still frowning. "You know you were very ill – you are not strong."

"I need to," I say, with more conviction than I really feel. Because what I feel is pretty bloody awful.

"Tomorrow will bring what it brings," she says. "Try and sleep now."

I try, but it's worse than ever. My weakness is infuriating me – I feel shivery one moment and hot the next, and by the time morning comes I feel as though I've run a marathon.

As I wake up, Samira's there again. I struggle to sit up, wondering why it's such an effort, and the room spins.

I act like a petulant child as she feels my forehead and then my pulse.

"I'm all right," I say belligerently, wishing I believed it.

"You are not," she says simply. "You are still weak, and you did far too much yesterday. With a fever like that, you are not going anywhere. Stay in bed and rest – with a little luck it will pass."

Luck? I don't believe in luck, but I do know she's right. I settle back against the pillows, feeling lousy and the frustration making me bitter and uncommunicative. Even when Khaled pops his head round the door, holdall in hand, I can't bring myself to be particularly civil.

"Back in a couple of days," he says cheerfully. "Hamidah says she'll call in – she's not coming with me this time."

Wonderful. And what can she do for me? Beam me over to Tel Aviv? Send a carrier pigeon over to CI5 headquarters?

I don't say much, preferring to lie there and sink into abject despair. I don't want Hamidah. I don't want to wait any longer. I want to be on a nice clean, shiny plane and back in London. I don't want any more shooting or talk of peace in the godforsaken, fucked-up Middle East. And most of all I want to know if Chris is all right. To be with him, seeing the dimples and hearing him chuckle. I'd even let him eat pizza until the cows come home or yell at half the Met right now.

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

I can't begin to describe how much better I feel this morning, after yesterday's phone call. I actually managed to get a vaguely decent night's sleep - at least in comparison to the last few days, anyway.

I'm awake and up early, feeling like I could take on the world. Sam's alive, and I feel like all my Christmases have come at once. It's an incredible feeling.

He's not totally out of danger though, I know that, and he won't be until he's back in London. But the worry that he's dead, or being tortured somewhere by Al Khayal has gone, at least. It gives me hope. I'm obviously not the only one either, since the mood at work is significantly lighter than it was just twenty-four hours ago. 

Spence has been working his magic since the phone call, and has managed to narrow down the phone trace a bit more, but it's still not given us an exact fix. Sam wasn't on the phone long enough for that. What we do know is that he's still in Palestine, somewhere in the Southern part of the West bank. Not that that's much help, because it still leaves us a relatively vast area to search. And, of course, it's the most difficult area in Palestine, because they're full of both Israeli and Palestinian settlements, as well as the odd terrorist group like Al Khayal.

It would have been so much simpler if Sam had just told us where he was, and that's something that is still bothering me. He said that the company hadn't been compromised, but if he's still in Palestine, then he's in vaguely hostile territory, and someone obviously doesn't want us to know where he is. I can't imagine why he would want to keep that information from us, so there's definitely something not quite right.

Still, Backup and I have been monitoring news bulletins and reports from the area, trying to pick up anything that might have some bearing on Sam's location. There's a lot to sift through, since trouble in that area has been increasing over the last week or so, and there are new border skirmishes and confrontations between the Palestines and the Israelis somewhere in the area almost every day, rather than every few weeks like it was.

"Here's one," Spence says, coming up behind me with a piece of paper in his hand. He leans over my shoulder and spreads the sheet out on the desk in front of me. "There was some trouble late last night in the rough area the call came from."

"What happened?"

"Doesn't look too serious," he says as I scan the few details scrawled out on the paper. "An Israeli group attacked three of the Palestinian settlements. There are reports of casualties, though our information is that none of them were life-threatening."

"This information is from the same source that said Khayal would be safely tucked up in bed last week, yeah?" I can't help remarking dryly.

Spence grimaces. "We're doing our best, Chris," he chides gently.

"Yeah, sorry." 

And they are trying, we all are, but it doesn't seem to be getting us anywhere. Having a list of the skirmishes is all very well, but does nothing to help us find Sam. Unfortunately, with the news that Sam is still alive, the priority shifted slightly. We are searching for him, but Khayal still needs to be found, and quickly, before he can do any more damage than he already has.

To be honest, I'm not even sure that keeping an eye on all these smaller conflicts between two very fucked up nations is going to achieve anything. Particularly since right now, I don't give a shit about Khayal. I want him caught, (or dead, I really don't mind which) for what he did to Richards, but Sam is my first priority. Once he is safe and back at my side, then we'll go after Khayal. 

Together.

Not that I'll be telling Malone that. He may have let me off the hook as far as visiting the shrinks are concerned, but I'm still very aware that he's keeping an eye on me. As is Backup, though I suspect for very different reasons. We haven't really spoken since I poured my heart out to her after the funeral. She's not ignoring me, at least I don't think she is, we haven't really had a chance to talk about anything, but there's definitely an edge to her body language with me that certainly wasn't there yesterday morning at the funeral.

I still can't believe I told her. I mean, I shouldn't have told anyone, and that in itself was a mistake, but to tell Backup of all people. If she doesn't tell Malone and get me suspended or at least reassigned, I'll be amazed.

Stupid.

But I was feeling miserable and needed to talk to somebody. Maybe choosing Backup wasn't a good idea though. Sorting things with Sam before we left for Israel and getting this mess cleared up one way or another would have been far better. But I also know that I wasn't ready to talk to him. I didn't know how I felt about him, because I'd never thought of him in that context before.

No, that's not true. I'd never allowed myself to think of him like that, and there's a big difference between those two statements. I've always been aware that he's a handsome guy, and someone I enjoy spending time with, but since Sam's straight there's never been any point in pursuing those thoughts.

But after the car park, and the brief kiss we shared...

Even now, remembering those precious seconds sends a shiver up my spine. The way he held me to him...the feel of his lips on mine...

All too suddenly I remember where I am, and start upright, glancing round just in time to see Backup watching me curiously, before turning away as our eyes meet.

Damn.

I can't think about this here, it's too dangerous, but I do need to think about it. I've been pushing it away ever since it happened, at first because of the mission, and then because it seemed wrong to think about Sam in that sense when I thought he might be dead.

Things have changed now. Sam's alive, and unless I deal with these feelings and come up with some kind of solution before his return, things are going to be really awkward. 

Standing up, I pick my mobile up from the desk in front of me and walk over to Backup, hesitantly placing one hand on her shoulder. She starts slightly under my hand, and then turns to face me, her expression guarded.

"I'm going to go get some air, Backup," I declare. "I've got my phone with me if I'm needed."

She nods and I leave without another word. I do know that I should talk to her, find out how she feels, and whether she's planning to shop me…us…to Malone, but not right now. I can't deal with Backup's reaction to this until I figure out my own, and whether there's going to be a 'me and Sam' in the first place.

Shrugging into my jacket, I walk slowly out of headquarters and down towards the Southbank and the river. It's not a very long walk, fifteen minutes maybe, but I keep my thoughts carefully blank, simply enjoying the walk. 

Bizarrely, after Sam's phone call yesterday I've had much more energy than I did before, and decided to dispense with the crutches. While I certainly needed them when I was first discharged, the last day or so I've been using them more because I haven't had the strength to stand on my own.

It sounds ridiculous, but it's true. Every waking moment was spent worrying about Sam, I wasn't sleeping, and I had no spare energy for anything else, like starting to use my injured leg again.

But now I have proof that Sam's alive the fear has eased slightly, and I can start to deal with other things. Like getting the strength back in my leg, and working out where my partnership stands with Sam.

So now I'm walking without the crutches. It hurts, I won't pretend otherwise, but it's bearable, and the pain will ease as I start exercising it again. I might not be doing any five mile hikes for a while, but I need to get my fitness level back to normal again, ready for the next time I'm - we're - sent out in the field.

The walk is pleasant, and London is fairly quiet considering the time of day. I get a few odd looks from people, probably because of the cuts and bruises still visible on my face, but a lot less than I would have had with the crutches, so they don't bother me too much.

Eventually I arrive at the river, and sit down on one of the stone seats built in to the wall. 

There's a cool breeze here, and I look out over the various boats making their way gracefully down the Thames. Back when I first came to London I used to come here almost every day when I could, to just sit and watch them go by. In a strange way, it made me feel connected to home, because my father and I used to do the same thing before I joined the Navy. We'd go there every weekend and discuss my schoolwork, girlfriends, family, whatever was relevant at the time. It was about the only quality time I ever spent with him, and while we were never really close, I still miss him.

I miss them all.

It's been almost five years now since they died, and I've never really got over it, as the regular nightmares attest. I don't ever expect to though, because you can't get over something like that. You just learn to accept it, and rebuild your life as best you can.

The first time I tried to do that by joining the SEALS, failed miserably, though probably gave me the release that I needed at the time. It was only after Malone offered me a position within CI5 that I really took stock of my life, and realised that the SEALS was more about hiding from what had happened than building myself a new life.

Hence the move to London. 

Looking back now, the clean break from everything I knew was definitely a good thing, but at the time it was one of the hardest things I'd ever done. I suddenly found myself in a new country where I didn't know anyone, and where the culture was just different enough from what I'd known to be alienating. 

The job was similar, though being permanently teamed with one person rather than part of a dozen people who regularly interchanged took a little getting used to, especially since that person was Sam. While I wouldn't dream of wanting another partner these days, in the first few months his cold attitude annoyed me, especially since he seemed to view me as little more than an irritant.

All that changed, though, and the rest is history. During those first few months, it was Richards and Backup who helped me settle in here, introducing me to the sights and sounds of London as well as the intricacies of how CI5 worked, but I still used to come down to the river, looking for some form of contact with the people I'd left behind.

I really don't know when things started to improve between me and Sam. There wasn't one mission, or one big showdown that bonded us together as a partnership, but simply lots of little things. Times when Sam's emotionless mask slipped, giving me a glimpse of the man inside, cases where my instincts proved right, perhaps. Gradually we settled in, found a good way of working together, and before long were one of CI5's best teams.

Right from the beginning I'd been aware of my attraction to him, though I’d never really allowed myself to acknowledge the physical side of it, even to myself. I just knew he was special, that his opinion of me mattered. In a way I suppose, it was partly responsible for my toning down my reckless streak when working, because suddenly it wasn't just my life I was playing with, but Sam's as well. And while I'd quite willingly risk my own safety to achieve our objective, (something that used to drive both Sam and Malone to distraction), I'm not quite as willing to risk Sam's as well. 

Doctor King would probably say that I'm mistaking my close friendship with Sam for a sexual one because of the high-risk job we do, because of how close we have to be in order to work effectively as a team, but that's bullshit. I've been working in this field all my adult life, and I don’t look at everyone the way I look at Sam. In fact, he’s probably only the second guy that I’ve done any more than admire from afar.

And Paul was a long, long time ago.

Am I gay?

No, I don't think so. I enjoy women, and I loved Teresa completely. But that doesn't mean I don't like men as well. I've just learnt to ignore that side of my sexuality, with the exception of Paul.

Seventeen years old, and Paul was my best friend. We went through school together, grew up together, and for a few very brief weeks one summer, were more than just friends. If I'm brutally honest it was nothing more than a few embarrassed fumblings, and we never actually became lovers. Even so, those weeks were enough to make me realise that I enjoyed men (or at least, Paul) just as much as women, but we never got the chance to take things any further.

While I was still uncertain about what I wanted, Paul already knew that he was gay long before we'd become involved, and chose that summer to come out to his parents, though he never told anyone that we’d been fooling around.

His parents weren't exactly thrilled at the news, though they accepted it. Of course, the gossip spread fairly quickly, and the revelation that Paul was gay eventually reached my household, and more specifically, my highly conservative father. 

He wasn't quite so understanding.

The day he heard the news, we spent the afternoon down with the boats, so I had a fair idea what was coming, but the tirade against homosexuality he launched into was much more than I had expected, even from him.

'The whole idea is disgusting...that boy is a disgrace to his family...he's obviously not been brought up properly, no normal person would consider such things.'

Every stereotypically bigoted statement you could think of.

I didn't believe a word of it, but since he'd made his feelings perfectly clear, I learnt to ignore that side of myself rather than face up to him. It might sound stupid these days, when society is much more tolerant than it was twelve years ago, but I was so in awe of the traditions of my family that I never made any attempt to stand up to him.

My father ruled the household with an iron fist, and I was banned from seeing him. Three months later I enrolled at Annapolis, and never saw Paul again. It wasn't long after that I met Teresa, and my latent attraction to men was pushed into the background once I'd fallen for her. 

It just didn't seem to matter, because I'd met the woman I was going to spend the rest of my life with.

After she died, I again became aware of men as well as women when dating, but my father's standards were well ingrained by then, and I still found myself ignoring that side of my sexuality.

I know that by then I'd moved away from my father's control, and could have confronted him, making him see how wrong he was.

But it's very difficult to argue with a dead man.

Even with Sam, the first man I've felt a strong attraction to since Paul, I've always fought to ignore it, partly because of the way I was brought up. Besides, Sam's straight, so any feelings I had for him seemed irrelevant.

But it was Sam who initiated the kiss, and who seems so resentful of Kirsten, (and how ridiculous is that? As if Sam would ever have any reason to feel threatened by her) and I can't think of any reason why he would act like that if he wasn't attracted to me.

Which means he can't be straight. I don't know if he's always been bisexual (but if he has, he's done one hell of a job concealing it), or if he's only just exploring the possibility, as it were. But either way, we need to talk about it. Figure out exactly what is going on, what the other feels, and then go from there. Half of me says to drop it and pretend it never happened. Even I can see that it would cause all kinds of problems, and don't even want to imagine Malone's reaction if we got together and he ever found out about it.

I can't help but laugh at the idea. After the semi-lecture he gave me last week about breaking the First Rule, I can't help but wonder what he'd say if he found out I was even considering contravening it to that extent. I sure as hell wouldn't be able to talk my way out of a trip to the shrinks, that's for sure.

So where does that leave me? I know that I'd like to try some kind of relationship with Sam, but truly don't know whether Sam returns my feelings, or if it's just wishful thinking on my part. 

And if Sam is interested in me, what is he interested in? A fling, casual sex when he's between dates? Or something more permanent, more fulfilling? Which would I prefer? And what happens if we get together and it goes wrong? How would that affect us working together? Because I don't think I could cope if something happened to Sam because we'd slept together, and six months down the line our working relationship had suffered because of it.

Another hundred questions. Typical. Though I suppose something had to replace the questions and uncertainty I had when I didn't know if Sam was alive or not.

I think the only thing I can do is wait. See what Sam feels when he returns, assuming Backup hasn't shopped us both to Malone before then. No, that's not fair. Whatever she thinks personally about Sam and I (not that there is a 'Sam and I' yet), Backup is even more of a professional than either of us, and wouldn't interfere in CI5's working structure to fulfil any kind of personal grudge.

The blare of a boat horn interrupts my wandering thoughts. It doesn't seem like I've made any kind of progress in straightening things out, but then I can't really. Not until I see Sam again, because this is a decision we have to make together. Looking back out over the river again, I watch a boat full of dancing figures chug up the Thames, the engines completely drowned out by the blaring music. There are a small group of young girls, probably no more than fifteen years old, leaning over the railings who yell and wave up at me. Smiling, I wave back and they dissolve into giggles, none of them quite brave enough to meet my gaze. Wouldn't it be nice to be that age again, when everything is so much simpler? Although, if it means going through all that again... I can't help but shudder.

Maybe not.

Slowly getting to my feet, I make my way back towards CI5. With decisions made, for the time being at least, I have work to do.

I'm only back at my desk for ten minutes or so before Malone appears, startling me.

"Mr. Keel," he begins, "do you believe you will be back to full fitness in approximately one week?"

I think for a minute. That might require a day or so in a gym, but shouldn't be too difficult. "Yes, sir."

"Then I have an assignment for you."

I can't quite keep the frown from my face. "Without Sam, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Keel, though this is a voluntary assignment which you don't have to undertake if you would rather remain here."

Curiouser and curiouser. It's not often Malone offers you a choice of assignment, though it is understood that every agent has the right to request to be exempted from anything they don't feel capable of dealing with. Such a request does involve a trip to the dreaded shrinks office, though, so it's not often made.

"What is it, sir?"

"We believe that we have located Al Khayal's new base, and are planning to send someone undercover to infiltrate it."

Sounds interesting. I don't really want to be going anywhere until Sam is back, though. "Whereabouts is the new base?"

He gestures for me to follow him, and we walk over to the large world map pinned up on one wall.

"In Jordan, on the Israeli border," he states, gesturing to the area on the map. "It seems that Khayal is involved in the running of a terrorist training camp. The location moves, but the purpose is always the same – to organise major incidents. We have been asked to both apprehend him, and shut down the training site."

My first reaction has nothing to do with stopping Khayal. Aqaba is within a hundred miles of Khayal's old compound, which means that Sam is somewhere nearby. If I'm going to be in the vicinity, then it's the perfect opportunity to try and find him.

I don't need any more persuading. "I'll do it."

Malone smiles. "Good. According to our Israeli allies, the training camp accepts and trains all kinds, from local fanatics to mercenaries, and offers money in return for each terrorist act committed successfully."

"How do I get in without being suspected? I can't exactly pretend to be Palestinian, and I don't speak Arabic."

"That shouldn't be a problem. The details aren't finalised yet, I need to discuss them with the Israeli government first, but the plan is to set you up as a mercenary. We'll give you a fairly impressive record of past targets, with explosives as your speciality." The wry irony in Malone's voice is obvious. "The Israeli government has an agent in the area already, and has infiltrated those setting up the camps, but they lack the resources of our organisation, and can do little more than simply monitor the activities. He'll recommend you to the camp recruiters, and we'll take it from there. For the moment you’ll be on your own, though it should be possible to put Harley in the camp later on to provide you with backup. As for the language, it seems that Khayal and his friends insist on English speaking troops, so that they can travel abroad and attack when necessary. Apparently European mercenaries are surprisingly common amongst the trainees."

Malone seems to have everything organised, so I simply nod. 

"You were well trained with explosives in the SEALS, I believe?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. We'll send you on a refresher course, as well as fitness training to rebuild your strength after your recent injuries, but after that we'll have to wait for updates from our Israeli contacts."

My mobile phone rings, and Malone dismisses me before I answer it.

It's Kirsten, and as soon as I hear her voice I have to smother a groan. I forgot to call her back after her answer phone message.

"Hi Chris," she begins, sounding slightly annoyed. "Why didn't you return my call?"

I walk quickly out of Ops, looking for somewhere quiet and finally settling on the locker room.

"I'm sorry, Kirsten," I begin. "Things have been a bit manic the last week or so."

"How come?" she asks suspiciously.

"I had a slight accident a couple of days after we went out at the restaurant," I grimace, mentally crossing my fingers as the lies start. "I was in hospital for a few days, and I've been recovering since."

Her tone of voice completely changes. "Oh, honey!" she exclaims. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." I hesitate, unable to immediately come up with a believable answer to the first question. In the end I simply settle for a car crash. "But I'm fine, honestly. Are you still free this weekend?"

"Friday night?" she suggests.

"Sounds great," I reply, wondering why it actually doesn't. I've been dating Kirsten for a couple of months now, and my feelings for Sam are nothing new, even if I never really acknowledged them before. Why have I suddenly lost all enthusiasm for her?

The conversation is over pretty quickly since we're both at work, but the date is set for Friday evening.

Yippee.

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

Despite my temper which is bad and my attitude, which is worse, I feel a bit more human by the afternoon – probably thanks to something else that Grandma brings in and motions to me to swallow. Pills, this time. 

Hamidah rolls in with a grin, but hesitates a bit as I glower at her. She's not to be put off easily, though, and this one is not a flake like Kirsten.

"You can tell me to piss off if you like," she says in what, incidentally, is perfect English without the trace of an accent. Not even an American twang like Khaled's.

I don't tell her anything, but she comes and joins me – I've taken myself off to the terrace, sick of lying like some sort of bedridden weakling.

"Look," she says fairly bluntly. "I know you want to get out of here, and I don't blame you. Samira said you must have people worried about you, and I understand. Khaled should be back in a few days, and bring you the papers you need. They're really making an effort for you."

I'm being uncharitable, but I just grunt, flicking absently through the pages of another masterpiece of French literature.

"OK," she sighs. "I just came over to see if you had some time to help me."

"Help you?" I say, surprised.

"I'm a journalist – I don't suppose anybody told you, but I work for some of our multi-cultural organisations."

"Oh." I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say to that. A round of applause, maybe? No, that's unkind and she doesn't deserve it. "That's – excellent."

Oh, trite. She rolls her eyes a bit, like Backup I realise with a shiver. So I try a bit harder.

"Here? Or are you normally somewhere else?"

Well, it's an attempt at conversation and she takes me up on it fairly enthusiastically.

"In Tel-Aviv, mostly. We're out in the middle of nowhere here, but it's one of the trickiest places. You probably haven't seen, but this village is a stone's throw from some crappy, concrete Israeli settlements. Trouble happens regularly, and sometimes we work locally, trying to keep our own people from stirring up trouble and listening to arseholes like Al Khayal."

"So the Israeli's own troublemakers come and shoot at you instead?" I say waspishly.

"It wasn't our neighbours," she says shortly. "In fact a couple of Israeli kids got caught in the crossfire as well. Samira's been stitching them up all morning."

Oh. Despite my bad mood, I find myself interested.

"Things are getting tricky in Jerusalem as well," she tells me. "A few idiot Palestinians have been attacking a few more idiot Israelis. And vice-versa. So a few more fuckwits decide to play tit for tat. Sometimes I think we're all –" she makes a sweeping gesture that embraces the house, the village and probably half of the West Bank – "losing our batteries, but we're crazy enough to try."

I think about this for a minute, reflecting on Malone and his rose-scented philosophy. In fact I seem to have spent days now wondering about good and bad, right and wrong. 

"You have to do what you feel is right," I say, which is less than inspired.

"Sure," she says briskly. "I was talking to Samira – she knows you want to get out of here and I don't blame you. But you're in no great shape yet and you're worried half out of your mind. And I need some help."

"Help?" I say, not very enthusiastic.

"I write fairly good English. But I have my limitations. Maybe you can help me. We're working on a website about joint Arab-Israeli projects. It's in English, and I make mistakes when I write. Maybe you can look at it."

I stare at her.

"You don't have to," she says fairly curtly. "I just though it might help pass the time."

It might, I decide. And it can't be any worse than just sitting here trying to read and thinking about Chris and Backup.

"Sure," I say, and win a broad grin.

"Good. Well let's get to work then."

She means it, too, and when the large sheaf of papers is spread out on the table, I find myself actually interested. 

I have a fairly good command of English, and writing stuff down has never been difficult – as Chris has found out and exploits mercilessly. No, I insist, I'm not going to think about Chris now. I have to concentrate on getting out of here but letting myself slide into a state of panic isn't going to help.

So I get my head down and edit. Correct a few stray errors of grammar here and there, whip some apostrophes into submission and rephrase a few sentences. Hours slide by almost without my noticing them.

Finally we're finished and she stretches luxuriously, the skimpy t-shirt riding up over a slim midriff.

"Wonderful," she grins. "I'll get all that inserted when I get my hands on a computer next week. You up for some more tomorrow?"

I hesitate, and she purses her lips.

"If you're thinking of trying to head off on your own, John, you're mad. I presume whoever's worried sick about you would prefer you back in once piece than seeing you hurt again."

She has a point, I suppose. 

"OK," I say finally. "Tomorrow, then."

"Good," she grins. "Look forward to it."

 

~*~*~

 

This is all rather surreal, I decide by the end of the fourth day. I feel much stronger now, and have even been on short walks with Hamidah after our work sessions. She's pointed out the neighbouring Israeli settlement, and we've even exchanged a few words with people round about. 

Last night there was more shooting, though, and once again Samira's skills were called for. Both Hamidah and myself helped with two fairly minor wounds, but an adolescent was killed and there's a shiver of tension in the air that's been palpable all day. I've had trouble concentrating and I think it's fairly universal. Even Grandma's unceasing placid humour seems to be wavering a bit.

"Last text," Hamidah says brightly as I rustle up my wits again and stare at the three pages in front of me. We've done articles on every sort of joint Israeli-Arab organisation that seems to exist, from "Women for peace" to judo and handicrafts via literature and music. It's been pretty educational, to be honest.

This one, however, makes my eyes widen. It's the "Israel-Arab Joint Union for Gay Rights."

"You shocked?" Hamidah says, with a soft chuckle. "I saved it for last. But there are some great people involved in that."

"I don't shock easily," I say, skimming through the opening paragraphs and for once incapable of blocking out thoughts of Chris. When it gets to stuff like "homosexuals having a right to take responsibility for their actions," I almost find myself nodding. Then, near the end of what seems to be a soundly-written and sensitive header article, it also calls upon gays not to hit on those who reject them.

I shudder, despite myself and Hamidah looks at me worriedly.

"You all right?"

"Fine," I say. "Just thinking… about someone I know."

"Gay?"

"Bi," I tell her. "It's – hard, from what he tells me."

"It must be," she agrees, bending her head close to mine. "Because love is wonderful. Love you can never have must be a terrible thing."

Not a Kirsten, this one. Not at all. 

"You ever been in love, Hamidah?"

"Not yet," she says, openly. "Oh, I'm hardly a virgin and there's an Israeli guy I see quite a bit, but I'm still waiting for something that feels right, I suppose. But Khaled says you have someone, right?"

"I – " my mouth dries.

"It's okay," she says. "I won't pry. And you'll be back with her soon. One of the guys in our group called earlier and says Khaled will be back tomorrow."

I could have shaken her for not telling me before, but I find myself smiling. 

"And yes," she adds impishly, "he has some papers for you."

On impulse, I kiss her. And she responds, with more merriment than passion at first but then it deepens a little and I find myself panting as we break away, staring at each other.

"I have to go," she says, frowning a little but looking at me strangely. "But perhaps – perhaps we could meet tonight? Come over to eat – the least I can to thank you for all the work."

I nod, excitement and fear bubbling up in equal proportions, as well as stray thoughts from my day's 'work'.

 

~*~*~

 

Samira seems happy enough for me to go over to Hamidah's place, and looks both tired and worried. Things are not good in Jerusalem, she says. The endless circle of attacks and reprisals are happening still and becoming more and more vicious.

I feel for her – for them all, really. 

"Don't worry," she says with false brightness. "We have seen all this before. Death walks beside us, but we have to accept that, and believe that one day, it will be better. When this country we share is rid of people like Al Khayal and some of the Israeli groups who are no better.

"I hope so," I tell her simply.

"Go," she says. "Hamidah is most grateful to you and so she should be. You are a good man, Jean."

A good man, I ponder as I head for Hamidah's parents' place? I don't know. A good man – or rather a good bisexual man – shouldn't hit on his straight partner, for instance. Or give Backup false impressions like I've done in the past. 

She's pretty and intelligent, like Hamidah. But deserves better than a mixed-up colleague taking her to bed for physical release and companionship. Just like Chris deserves more than having his own sexuality fucked up.

Oh, I know I'm attractive. I know I'm a good lover to men and women alike, but like Hamidah I want something that feels right – and not just for one of the partners. So – logically – the only thing to do is to keep my sex drive assuaged with willing partners who don't also happen to be my best friends.

I'm definitely feeling better, though. And know damn well that if Hamidah's thank you is of the physical nature I'm hardly going to turn her down.

Because, I decide, I'm definitely going to turn over a new leaf when I get back. Have things out with Chris and apologise. Backup too. If they're all right, of course.

Hope, for once, reigns over despair and when Hamidah lets me in and casually tells me her parents are out I'm already starting to feel that familiar need growing. 

She's not obvious, though, and serves up excellent food and some more of that Algerian red to go with it. Her father, she says, is a trader, and Muslim traditions about alcohol and pork and a whole lot of other things are simply outdated. Invented for sensible reasons but inapplicable to today's world.

I can't agree more, and the wine's making me feel pleasantly mellow. 

She looks at me as she pours another glass.

"Do you want me, John?"

As simple as that. I nod, and she holds out her arms.

Oh, she's good. Her kiss is gentle, insistent, and we're both moaning as we tumble onto the bed in her room. My hands slide inside the loose, rough-woven top she's wearing and encounter her breasts, brushing erect nipples as she responds by sliding the shirt off me.

I most certainly do want this. It's need and gratitude and plain, simple lust all rolled into one. We're naked in seconds and her hands trail down my torso, fluttering over the now nearly-healed wound.

She pulls me close to her, then, and we kiss again, hands exploring, caressing with growing urgency. She's slim, wiry, and her skin's like velvet. Her hair, long and smelling faintly of lemons, cascades over my shoulders as I slide my hand between her thighs.

She's wet. Very wet, and gasps as I part her gently, seeing her tipping her head back and reaching out for me. The touch sends fire rippling through me and I revel in the sensation, basking in the firm, steady rhythm she takes up. I echo it with my own fingers, deep inside her now but at the same time stimulating the swollen nub to the point that she cries out in delight. 

"Inside me," she breathes, and I know she's close. "But first…"

A condom packet has materialised into her fingers, but even seeing her tear it is full of sensuality. I don't halt my own, more insistent caresses as she slides it over me, panting now, and then feel her tense, arching up to me and letting out a cry of what sounds like surprise as she jerks convulsively against me.

I let her recover for a second or two, and she looks at me, wide-eyed. 

"May I?" I half-whisper, needing my own release now, and she nods, tongue sliding over her lips. I settle over her, feeling the last tremors of her climax still making her shudder, and enter her effortlessly, her hand almost reverently guiding me in. 

I want to make this slow, though, but after a few thrusts know that's going to be hard. She understands, rolling me onto my back and straddling me, losing contact for a moment or two. Then she starts a slow, almost languid rising and falling that stokes the fire gradually to the point where I can feel the tightness in my balls and start bucking upwards.

She's a tease. She slides off me and then turns, hovering over me with her back to me before sinking down on me again, her hands caressing both my balls and her clitoris as she starts yet again with an agonisingly slow rhythm.

Seeing myself enter her nearly topples me over the brink. That's how I most like taking women, I have to say… and then the realisation hits me as her movements become more urgent again. I like taking men like that too. Not that I don't like playing bottom, nor that face to face doesn't turn me on either.

Oh, Christ. I wish this was a man. 

I wish it was Chris.

It's nearly enough to rob me of my erection but luckily – very luckily - Hamidah's urgency is growing and her skilful fingers around my balls, fluttering over the base of my cock as she starts to moan again are effective enough. That, coupled with visions of Chris impaled on me, begging me to come inside him, override my current lover's own whimpers.

It's his body I'm taking, now. His slim back I can see, his long, capable hands fondling me…and I spill hotly into the condom as she climaxes again, the spasms squeezing me until I collapse back against the pillow, spent and guilty.

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

By the time Friday evening comes, I'm shattered. Malone wasn't kidding about sending me on a bomb refresher course, and I've spent the last three days learning about new wiring techniques and practising bomb construction, detonation and diffusion - all under controlled conditions, of course. I’ve managed to remember most of what I learned with the SEALS, but there’s still a lot more to learn.

On top of that, I've been working with Jason Stevens, CI5’s fitness trainer, to get my fitness level back up to what it was before the explosion. I might still be walking with a limp, but all things considered I'm in pretty good shape. Unfortunately, pretty good shape isn’t enough to get me passed for active duty, so I still have a long way to go. Since I’m about to go undercover, Malone has brought the usual two day refresher course we all go through after an injury forward a few days, and extended it. While it’s not exactly how I’d prefer to spend my time, and I’d been complaining to all and sundry about how hard they’re making me work, I have to say that I’m actually kind of enjoying myself.

The physical training is exhausting and yet rewarding at the same time. Each time I achieve something, even as little as beating a previous time at laps is like a miniature confidence boost.

It does take a lot of energy and stamina though, and I’d like nothing more than to just curl up in a corner somewhere tonight with a hot bath. That’s not possible though, because I’ve arranged to see Kirsten tonight. Only at a pub so far, mainly because I couldn’t be bothered to come up with somewhere more interesting to go, but it’ll do for a start.

It’s funny, because a fortnight ago I used to look forward to seeing her. She might not be particularly bright, I know that, but she’s fun, and gorgeous, and the sex is good. But suddenly I just can’t find the enthusiasm to look forward to tonight. And the only thing that’s altered in the last two weeks that could have changed things like this, is Sam.

If I’m honest, then I’ve given up trying to pretend that I’m not attracted to Sam. I’d only be lying to myself, and that doesn’t achieve anything. So if I’ve accepted my feelings for Sam, the only thing that remains is to decide what to do about them. Sadly, that’s not just up to me. If it was I know what the answer would be, but I’m still not sure of Sam’s reaction to all this.

About the only good reason for seeing Kirsten tonight that I can think of is that hopefully it’ll take my mind off everything. A few hours where I can just switch off, even if it’s not with the person I’d really rather spend my time with, can’t be a bad thing.

With that in mind, I force a smile as I go into the pub and see Kirsten sitting by the bar. 

“Hiya,” I begin, and she smiles before kissing me.

“Chris, darling,” she begins, and I have to fight back a grimace at the simpering tone in her voice. 

Come on, I berate myself sternly, it’s hardly her fault that you’ve suddenly found…well, other interests.

“You’re looking well,” she continues. “After the things you said on the phone I’d half expected to see you in a cast or something!”

“The crutches went back on Wednesday,” I reply bluntly.

“Poor darling,” she’s simpering again. “So what happened?”

I make up something about a car crash, mentally fighting images of Sam, and the explosion that really put me in the hospital. This isn’t helping. I wonder, idly, what her reaction would be if I told her the truth.

No, let’s not go there.

I buy her a drink and we head over to a booth in the corner where it’s slightly quieter.

“It seems like ages since we’ve had time alone together,” she comments as we sit down.

“About two weeks, isn’t it?” I reply, trying to keep my mind on the conversation in hand and stop it from straying to more interesting areas.

“That was the last time I saw you,” she replies, as if she’s explaining something to a two year old, “but we weren’t alone, were we? Your friends were there.”

Now is it my imagination, or did the way she just say ‘friends’ sound less than complementary? 

It’s probably nothing, but it does remind me of the more memorable aspects of the evening. 

“That’s true.”

“And that dreadful mix-up with the food,” she continues brightly. “I must say I was quite disappointed with the waiter. He obviously wasn’t French – no one with any grasp of the language at all would mistake cuisses de grenouilles for fish.”

I make the mistake of taking a swig of beer at this point, and have to fight not to choke at how ludicrous she sounds. I’m not a linguist, as Sam repeatedly tells me, but even I know that her pronunciation is bad. Sam speaking French always sounds suave; charming even, though somehow that seems like an odd word to describe my partner. But Kirsten? Well, she sounds almost vulgar. 

Besides, does she honestly think that’s what happened at the restaurant? Surely she must have realised, even if just in hindsight, what Sam had done. Or does she think that I’m stupid enough not to notice?

“Oh, Romain is definitely French,” I feel compelled to mention. “I know him quite well.”

This, of course, is only because Sam insists on dragging me there every so often to try and improve my understanding of culture, or when we’re double dating.

She falters slightly. “Well, he must speak one of the dialects, then,” she recovers.

I don’t have the energy to reply, since my mind has wandered off again, back to the car park later that evening, and what Sam and I, all too briefly, shared.

At least that’s one thing I have to thank Kirsten for. If she hadn’t irritated Sam to the point where he felt the need to make a fool of her, I would never had been angry enough to confront him afterwards, and we might never have…

…have what? It’s not as if we’ve even done anything or got anywhere. All we succeeded in doing was confusing each other. And this line of conversation is not helping me take my mind away from Sam for the evening.

I sigh and pick up my bottle again. Two weeks ago I was arguing with Sam for treating ‘someone I care about’ like that. I don’t know that it would bother me any more. Do I care about her? I don’t know. I’m not sure I ever did. 

Does that make me a bastard? Probably.

The song on the jukebox changes, and as the first few notes play, Kirsten squeals and puts her drink down. 

“Robbie!” she exclaims. “Oh, I’d love to see him in concert.” She entwines her hand with mine. “Do you think you could get us tickets, Chris?” she asks, aiming for seductive, but falling a little short of the target. Now if she had green eyes, and dark hair instead of bottle blonde, she might have stood more of a chance. “With your contacts you must know someone connected to him,” she purrs.

Maybe I’m channelling Sam, I don’t know, but I suddenly find myself stringing her along a bit.

“Robbie tickets are like gold dust,” I reply, “I’m not sure even I could manage that.” Her face falls, and she’s trying not to show her disappointment before I continue. “I might be able to get us two tickets to go and see Eminem, though.”

Her expression turns even more sour. “I don’t agree with the message behind his music,” she replies coldly.

No, sweetheart, I didn’t think you would.

“His music – if you can call it that – promotes violence and degredation.”

There speaks the voice of the moral majority, ladies and gentlemen. Yet another person who jumps on the bandwagon to condemn him when she’s probably never actually listened to an Eminem track (except maybe Stan) in her life. I resist the temptation to roll my eyes and simply shrug. I know a fair bit (too much, probably), about violence, but I quite like Eminem. When you actually listen to the words, the things he says actually make a strange sort of sense.

I don’t bother replying, though.

Needless to say, the evening goes downhill from here.

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

I wake up what must be a couple of hours later, at a rough guess. Not having a watch still irritates me but there's one on Hamidah's outflung wrist. It's only just after midnight, so it wasn't the sound of early-morning activity in the village that I've been starting to recognise lately. 

Immediately, I want to get up and leave just as I always do with casual lovers – not very kind but then I'm not, I'm a bastard. Now if I ever really do 'find love' in the truest sense of the word, I'd want to be there, watching my partner sleep…

And I want that partner to be Chris. 

There's nothing I want more than to wake up beside my grouchy coffee freak in need of his caffeine shot. We've travelled together often enough for me to know that he's by no means a morning person, and that his conversation is somewhat limited until his third cup. That is, unless he needs to be ready for action when all slob characteristics disappear as if by magic and he's the touch, competent ex-SEAL I know and love.

Oh God, I *do* love him. The realisation shocks me for a moment, but I think I've known it for a while. 

But I can't have him. 

And maybe he's dead.

Suddenly drained and miserable, I sink back down onto the pillow for a moment before remembering that Khaled's due and I'm going to be out of here in a few hours. Then I'll know.

Gently, I touch Hamidah's cheek and she stirs, then looks at me sleepily.

"That was wonderful," she says. Well, I'm glad about that if less impressed by my own fantasies during it all but I manage a kiss and to agree with her.

"I'm leaving," I say softly. "Thank you. And take care of yourself."

"You too," she says seriously. "Drop me a line via the website one day, if you can. You remember the address?"

I should do. The link's been in front of my eyes in about several hundred places over the past few days.

"I'll try," I tell her, reaching for my sweatpants. "Go back to sleep, love."

She snuggles back into the covers, smiling faintly, and I feel a sudden rush of affection for her and what she and the others are trying to do. 

Considering that, I suppose that over the last few days I've smashed Malone's First Rule into tiny pieces. To be honest, though, he doesn't do more than pay it lip-service himself a lot of the time and I think we all know that without the whole human angle we'd all just be faceless machines anyway. 

But caring about people hurts, I remind myself. And however much I give the impression that my emotions are few and fair between and rarely aired in public, it's just for my own protection. 

Chris got inside that façade of mine, though, and look where that got me. Not that I regret it, though. Never will, never could, whatever I have to face soon.

Maybe Malone should amend the rule, I think as I slide my feet into the sandals. "Never get emotionally involved… unless you can handle the hurt involved."

I can't see him falling for that, but on reflection I think that's the sub-text. See what happens when you start editing?

It's silent as I leave the house through the rather conveniently placed door straight into Hamidah's room. I didn't hear her parents come back but some incredibly prudish streak tells me that I wouldn't have fancied picking my way through their living room and offering clear evidence that their daughter's just taken the nameless Englishman to her bed.

It's a clear, starry night like they all seem to be here and the air is still warm. There isn't a sound to be heard, although I know some of the locals will be watching and listening for the Israeli hooligans to make an appearance. Maybe the same thing is happening in the concrete-jungle newness just across on the other hill – peaceful Israelis half-expecting trouble from Palestinians.

It's a crazy existence, this one they live and cope with every day that comes.

On impulse, I decide not to go directly to Samira's – the door's never locked anyway so it really doesn't matter – and stay outside for a while with my thoughts. It's probably not wise just to wander around in the pitch dark, though, and the moonlight is only weak over the rocky ground.

One of the boys who brought in the injured kid the other night is one of the 'watchers', and I think I know where he'll be from one of my walks with Hamidah. Like some of the other visitors to the house lately, he's pleasant, speaks English and likes to practice it.

I go a little way out of the village towards a broken-down house, and call out softly.

"It's John. Just taking a walk."

"Welcome," a voice replies and I see two youths there drinking what looks like Fanta. They've got some sort of a lamp wired up, I see, and are equipped with binoculars, a walkie-talkie and blankets. A packet of cigarettes is waved at me, and I wave it away.

"Quiet?" I ask.

"No," one of them says. "There are a couple of vehicles moving, and no one is expected here. Might be trouble."

Damn. Selfishly, I curse the possibility of problems because I'm on my way out of here and not just because of the potential harm it might do.

"Things are bad," the other youngster adds. "Some of the Israeli extremists are really making life difficult for some of our villages at the moment. And some of our people are retaliating. As always."

As always. Some of these kids have never even known what it is to live in a world without war, I think sadly.

We sit in silence for a while and I stare up at the sky, watching the tip of their cigarettes glow and fade. My mind wanders to the last – how long has it been – nearly two weeks, and how much it's changed my view on the whole situation out here.

I probably get drowsy, eventually, but wake up as the boys yelp and the walkie-talkie starts crackling. A lot of frantic Arabic is exchanged, they flick onto another frequency, and within seconds I see lights go on in the village, one by one, and people running out.

"What is it?" I start to ask, but they don't have time for me now. I can see figures slipping out, heading towards the outskirts of the village. None of them seem armed, but the couple of hundred people who live here mostly seem to be adolescents, women or old men – the others are out fighting for what they believe in, according to Samira anyway. 

Eventually, there's a gap in the transmissions and they tell me. Several unknown vehicles are arriving and it could well be big trouble.

For a second, I wonder if it's a CI5 extraction team, but they wouldn't do that, surely?

I glance over at Samira's house and realise that I can see two figures in there – she and Grandma are awake and moving. I don't know why they aren't leaving like the others but I suppose my saviour and doctor hostess is waiting there for them to bring in the injured.

I shiver, undecided as to what I should do. Most of all, I'd like a couple of Uzis and a handful of grenades. 

Another figure slips inside 'my' house, and I think it's Hamidah. 

I want them out of there if there's going to be trouble, but have the feeling they'll stand their ground and refuse to budge. So I stay put, listening for the sound of vehicles and wondering how we're supposed to stop them with our bare hands.

"They've stopped," a voice tells me, and indeed, there's silence. Is this good or bad? Maybe it was just some innocuous lorries or even foolhardy tourists ignoring all the warnings about staying out of the West Bank.

Time drags, and cigarettes are lit again. This time, for the first since I was about 15, I take one and inhale it deeply. Nicotine isn't going to turn me into Popeye or Rambo, but somehow it seems appropriate.

The soft swhoosh that flits past me startles me, and my mind suggests bird or bat… for a millisecond. Then there's an explosion.

The bastards have rockets, I realise even as I hear somebody scream. And they're firing them straight at the village.

For a second or two I stand transfixed, and then throw myself down instinctively as the sound is followed two, three, four times more. Then stops.

Oh, Christ. 

There are flames, now, and I can hear the panicked cry of children mingling with screams of pain, shock and fear. 

Getting to my feet, and oblivious to whether it's going to start again, I set off towards the one house I know is inhabited.

But it's no longer there. Not much of it, anyway. I reach it, gasping with effort at running for the first time in too long, and force back the bile in my throat. 

The damage is massive – the ceiling has crashed down and split, and although there are no signs of fire there, there's just silence. 

I know there are tears running down my face as I start to tug at the first of the blocks of rubble, and after a minute arms pull me away. It's useless. Not in the dark, without equipment…

People are shouting Samira's name, now, as well as the other, plaintive sounds of suffering. Nobody answers. 

A hand touches my shoulder and I see Hamidah's father, and the streaks of wetness are evident on his face, too, even in the dark.

"Can you help us? With the injured?"

I stumble towards where he points me and see figures stooping, crouching over others. The first neck I touch to feel a pulse is like another blow to my stomach, because there's none to be found. 

I move on. And on. Bandages are passed to me, and gradually the noise dies down, to be replaced by soft, insistent sobbing that seems to be rising from a hundred voices.

 

~*~*~

 

Sam 

By dawn, the extent of the damage is clear and somewhere amid my exhaustion I realise that people are starting to carry their injured back inside. Three or four houses are badly damaged, Samira's is nearly flattened, a dozen villagers are injured and five people have died. Three are missing – Samira, Grandma and Hamidah. 

Another statistic for the television news. If they even bother to pick up on it.

Teams of people have been working on what has been my home for all this time as the sun rises, and not long after somebody comes and tells me what I already knew in my heart. The list of casualties has just risen to eight. 

Apparently they're going to take the more seriously injured to hospital in the rusty old pickup that I've seen around, and they start loading them in. Another car materialises to accompany them, and I see Hamidah's father is driving. He winds down the window and I see two kids in the back, both heavily bandaged and deathly pale.

"John, do you wish to come?"

I should wait here for Khaled, I realise, but he dashes my hopes quickly.

"Khaled will not be able to come. There are road blocks everywhere."

I climb in, too exhausted to argue. 

Only a couple of kilometres down the road there's a whole cluster of Israeli troops, stopping everything. The pickup, in front, is allowed to pass after a thorough search of the cabin. Then it's our turn to face the waving guns.

Hamidah's father starts to explain but as he does one of the soldiers pulls the two kids roughly from the back and starts searching. One child – no more than twelve, I think – reacts violently to this and spits in the eye of the men manhandling them. A rifle butt crashes onto his head and he drops instantly. 

I'm exhausted, shocked, and stupid but my body overrules any vestiges of good sense I might have left. In a single movement, I'm out of the car, yelling at the bastards.

In English. 

My arms are wrenched behind my back in a second, and rough hands frisk me.

"Who are you?" one of the uniformed soldiers asks me, also in English. I don't reply, not now, hating myself for the potential danger I represent for even being there.

"A tourist. He –" I nod to a man who's just lost his daughter and still thought to try and help me, "picked me up. I got lost."

I'm in trouble, but at least I can try and get him out of it. They're scrutinising his papers. 

"Is this true?" the soldier barks at the Palestinian, still bearing traces of last night's tears. Or at least I presume that's what he says because it sounds like Arabic.

Hamidah's father nods, looking at me almost imploringly.

"Some bastard fired rockets at their village," I continue. "I was camping…"

Oh, sure. If they swallow that it'll be a miracle.

"Very amusing," the clipped voice says. No miracles today. 

Or are there? They wave the others back into the car. The boy is still unconscious, but Hamidah's father – I can't even remember his fucking name, dammit, or is that a good thing? drives off, barely acknowledging me. 

I'm standing there, swaying with fatigue, as the questions start. I just shake my head, not playing along. I'm a fool. Maybe they would have let us pass, even if I had no papers, if I hadn't let my anger show.

"Rockets, eh?" the one who seems to be in charge says after a moment. "Well, your Palestinian friends have been fairly busy with car bombs, too."

Tit for tat, then. But there's not much mistaking where this guy's loyalties lie. Well, there wouldn't be, would there if he's wearing Israeli army uniform? I'm just so tired and shaky I can't think straight.

He asks me again who I am and I hesitate for a moment. Coming out with my contact address in Jerusalem is probably the best solution, so I suggest it politely.

My interrogator laughs. 

"And who do I tell him is calling?"

I don't answer that one, simply because I'm dizzy, suddenly. I'm supposed to say I'm one of the special team, that's all. And those instructions are nearly a fortnight old. The contact has probably disappeared into thin air by now anyway. 

I take a deep breath, but he interprets that as refusal and hits me, hard, across the face. I stagger, and he follows it up with a punch to my stomach. Somebody laughs but the pain is so intense that I can feel my knees going.

Instructions are rapped out in Hebrew, and I'm handcuffed and pushed into a jeep. I cry out, but a final blow of a heavy boot to my ribs brings blackness.

 

~*~*~

 

I come round in what looks like a cell. In fact the bars, the dirty mattress and bucket are ample evidence of that and it's so tiny I can see it all from where I'm lying, which is on the floor.

It's in what looks like a concrete bunker of sorts, I realise as I get my head up and feel nausea and pain wash through my side and ribs. And there's nobody here. 

I feel like shit, but I do manage to haul myself onto hands and knees and collapse on the relative comfort of the bed. I'm thirsty and shaky, and my head's spinning.

Logic says I'm in an Israeli army post somewhere, so it's simple. I just have to come out with my contact name again and get to a phone. How familiar, I realise with a shudder, but this place must be bristling with them.

First, though, I need to find somebody in charge. Am I going to be patient, or try and expedite things a little?

I throw patience to the winds and rattle the bars.

"Hey? Anybody there?"

Nobody comes. And there's no window in here so I've no idea at all how long I've been unconscious. Once again, I curse the absence of a watch but then realise that knowing isn't really important. I have to get out of here.

I yell again, several times, but it's a long time – at least an hour, I think, before the door opens and a guy in fatigues comes in with a bottle of mineral water. Big deal.

"I need to speak to whoever's in charge," I say with all the authority I can muster, which isn't a lot.

"He might not want to talk to you," the soldier says with a sneer, pushing the plastic bottle through the bars. 

"He will," I insist, getting to my feet with a superhuman effort. "Go and get him, please."

The guy shrugs and disappears.

Time drags by, and even my new-found comfort with the slow pace of the last few days doesn't prepare me for the sheer frustration of it. 

I drink the water and don't even try to push the thoughts away. The destruction and pain and the sheer futility of it all hammer away at me until my head's pounding. Eventually, I drift off to sleep on the bed and the dreams become even more vivid than the images. I feel as though I wake every ten minutes, sweating or shivering again.

Finally, two men come and motion me out of the cell. I'm shaky but pride helps me get my legs to obey me. I'm marched out of there with two machine guns trained on my back, which seems a little like overkill given my current form, really.

A sergeant's sitting in a tiny office and looks up.

"Who are you?" he says, without preamble. "Working with the Palestinians, are you?"

"No," I say. "I'm not. And I need to call someone in Jerusalem."

"Answer my question." It's rapped out coldly.

"I – can't tell you my name. But if you'll just call… they'll vouch for me." I hope they will, because this is suddenly becoming less simple than I thought. "Look –" I start, wondering how to tackle this.

"Who is this contact?"

I give him the name and number of somebody in some obscure government department or other, and he frowns. 

"And what is this person supposed to do for you?"

"He'll confirm I was – where I was – on official business."

"And you often do official business dressed like that?" The guy, blond and burly, allows himself a small sneer.

"It's hard to explain," I say lamely. You bet.

"Sure sounds it," he says disinterestedly. "Well, you're not a journalist because they can't wait to tell us who they are. Nor a tourist, because they'd do the same. Which means you were here to create trouble of some kind."

"No," I protest. 

"Then what?"

I hesitate, and he sighs, deeply. Scribbles the information I gave him on a piece of paper. I try to see the time on his watch but can't.

"He'll explain it all," I say. "So please…"

Being polite gets me nowhere. He motions to my guards and I feel the frustration mounting again.

"I'll talk to the captain when he gets back. He'll decide what to do with you."

"If you'll just make the call…"

"Shut up. Take him away."

I make a tiny gesture of protest and one of them rams the muzzle of his gun into my back, hard, which makes me stagger. I bite off a cry, not entirely successfully but somehow manage not to fall. 

Back in my cell, I curl up on the bed feeling the new area of pain join all the rest. It's probably the fever I know I'm running, but I feel I've just about reached rock bottom. They can keep me here for… I don't know how long. Execute me. Beat me again for fun if they feel like it, at best. 

Because I feel I have to, and after what could be ten minutes or three hours, I take a long look at the bars to the cell and realise that's hopeless. I can't exactly pick a lock, McGyver style, from bits of my clothing or make a deadly weapon from a half-litre bottle of warm mineral water. 

Then I return to the thin mattress and stare up at a concrete ceiling. 

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

I’m still musing about Kirsten, Sam and everything in between when Sunday arrives, and don’t seem to have got any further towards making decisions. Now that I know Sam is alive things are easier, but the niggling voice has returned, reminding me that it’s been almost a week since he called, and, just as before, an awful lot can happen in six days.

Can it really take that long to get to Tel-Aviv? Or at the very least, to get somewhere friendly that we could pick him up from? The sudden escalation in terrorist activities from both sides of the border probably isn’t helping, and the fear that Sam might get caught up in it, however unlikely that may be, isn’t doing anything to reassure me.

I’m still well aware that I’m prowling around CI5 like a bear with a sore head, and since the Powers That Be are quite pleased with my recovery and the work I’ve put in preparing for this undercover job, I’ve been given today off to rest up a bit. ‘To make sure I don’t overdo things too quickly’ was the official reason, but I think I could name at least half a dozen people who would have breathed a sigh of relief at the news that I wouldn’t be around this morning.

Not that I’ve spent the morning at home feeling sorry for myself. The need to be doing something, to keep busy, sent me out of my apartment at an ungodly hour jogging round the cemetery and nearby roads. Keeping fit has its bonuses, not the least of which is its ability to take your mind off your problems.

Feeling suitably virtuous, I jog home just before lunchtime and flake out on the sofa with a glass of water. My leg is almost back to full strength, though I still have a limp that I think I’ve managed to hide from everyone that matters.

There are no messages on my answer phone, which is both good and bad. No messages means nothing from Kirsten, which after Friday night can only be a good thing. The more I think about her, the more she’s annoying me, and deep down I think I know what I’ve got to do. Quite separate from what happens between Sam and me, if anything, I think my relationship with Kirsten has run its course. 

Would I still be saying that if this business with Sam hadn’t happened? Possibly not. Not yet, anyway, but I always knew that Kirsten wasn’t a candidate for a lifelong partner, so sooner or later one of us would be ending it. 

I’m under no illusions about her feelings for me, either. I know damn well I’m not her one true love any more than she’s mine. She only wants me for my connections – and the body of course. Being with me means she can wander round declaring proudly ‘my boyfriend can get us all tickets to the next Robbie Williams concert. Backstage, of course.’ That might explain why she was a bit put out at my Eminem crack.

To be brutally honest, I’m not sure I care enough to keep making the effort, even just for the short term. Yes, I know the hours I keep can be irritating, of course I do, and I don’t like wondering whether I’m going to last a week at work without ending up in the hospital, or worse, but surely if she was really interested she’d be willing to put all that to one side.

And if this is just a casual fling – what am I saying? Of course it is – then maybe I should just end it now. Because I’m not sure I want casual anymore. Everything that’s happened over the past few weeks has really got me thinking. If I’m going to be with someone, then I want that to be someone really special. Someone I can see myself spending the rest of my – probably short – life with. 

Someone as special as Teresa was.

Which brings me, as always, back to Sam. Does it really matter that I’m seriously contemplating that person being a man? Surely a lasting, committed relationship with someone that just happens to be a man is better than having a dozen casual flings, just because I can’t find a woman that matches up to what Sam was offering?

Should I really let the things that my father said so many years ago destroy a chance at real happiness?

When I think of it like that, the answer seems obvious. Perhaps the one thing that Teresa’s death taught me was to seize life, and happiness, whenever you can. To live and enjoy every day for what it is, and not worry too much about tomorrow. If I have a chance to be happy with Sam by my side instead of Kirsten, then I should go for it.

Otherwise I’m always going to wonder what might have been. What’s that saying? That you regret the things you don’t do more than the things you do? Something like that. I have a lot of regrets, but I know I don’t want Sam to be one of them.

I can’t help grinning, then drag myself off the sofa and head for the kitchen to get a beer. It seems like I’m made my decision after all. 

Opening the bottle with my teeth, (another party trick), I toast the air in celebration.

When Sam comes home - when, not if – I’ll tell him how I feel.

Everything.

With Sam on my mind and a beer in my hand, I head for the phone and dial headquarters.

Backup answers, and she sounds distracted. She’s been working hours almost as long as I have this past week, trying to keep on top of things as well as helping to find Sam.

I should buy her something as a thank you. Assuming she’s still talking to me. We still haven’t finished up that conversation we started after Richards’ funeral. Still, one thing at a time.

“Hey Backup,” I begin, feeling remarkably cheerful all of a sudden.

“Oh, Chris,” she hesitates slightly, and I feel my good humour drop slightly. Is it my imagination, or does she sound even more nervous now she knows it’s me?

Frowning slightly, I perch on the edge of the sofa and listen intently. Something’s going on.

“Put me through to Malone, will you?” He said he’d have some news about the undercover job sometime today, after he got back from Israel and meeting with his contact.

“He’s not here,” she replies. 

“Oh.” I thought his flight got back in hours ago. “Has his flight been delayed?”

She doesn’t respond. 

“Backup?”

“He’s postponed the flight, Chris. He doesn’t know when he’ll be back.”

“How come?”

“Just a change of plan, that’s all.”

She definitely sounds ill at ease. There’s more to this than she’s told me.

“What aren’t you telling me, Backup?”

She sighs. “There’s been some news, Chris. They think they’ve found Sam. Malone’s flying down to investigate.”

“What do you mean they think they’ve found Sam? Either they have or they haven’t.”

“We’re not sure. That’s why Malone’s gone to find out.”

“How hard can it be to figure out, Backup?” My voice gets louder as concern sets in again. “All Malone has to do is talk to the guy. It wouldn’t take a neurosurgeon to work out whether it’s Sam’s voice or not.”

“It’s not that simple, Chris,” she replies curtly. I hear someone call her name in the background, and she sighs. “Look, I have to go. Malone said he’d call again when there was any news, but to tell you that your undercover role is going ahead, and to wait for further instructions. Sorry Chris, but that’s all I know. I’ve…I’ve got to go.”

She hangs up, and I’m left holding a dead handset. Eventually it starts beeping at me and I switch it off on autopilot, my good mood gone.

They think they’ve found Sam.

What the hell does that mean? It’s an odd turn of phrase. Surely she should have said they’d heard from Sam, or Sam had arrived in Tel-Aviv. To say that they’d found him almost suggests…

No. It can’t be that. But then, why does Malone have to go fly down there to identify him? I don’t like this. Not one bit.

It’s as if Sam can’t prove for himself who he is. As if Malone’s going wherever he’s going to…

…I’m not sure I can even think it…

…to identify a body.

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

The light never goes off, and I seem to drift between waking and sleeping for what seems like days. It can't be, though. I've had 3 or 4 bottles of water and even a couple of some sort of stale sandwiches since I've been here, but there's no knowing whether they're being handed out regularly or when they feel like it. 

Somehow, I force a little of the food down but it seems to have stuck in my stomach like a lead ball. They've replaced the urine pail at one point, but there's nowhere I can wash. 

Another clue about passing time is the stubble on my chin – reminding me of the first day in Samira's place. It doesn't feel like more than three or four day's growth at the most. The last time I shaved was the Friday night before… before making love to a girl who's now dead. So I was picked up on Saturday. It must, I decide, be around Monday by now.

I'm not feeling great, either. The fever doesn't seem to be getting any better or any worse, but the bruising from fist, gun muzzle and feet is painful and throbbing.

Most of the time, I spend with my own thoughts. On good and bad, right and wrong, just for a change. On Chris, of course. And sometimes I don't even know where my thoughts are drifting.

Apart from the guards, the only person I see is a figure who appears to have a few more insignia than the others who peers round the door at me, frowns, and disappears again. Does this mean the captain's back? Was that him?

Why doesn't somebody fucking well do *something*?

My reserves seem to be dwindling as I lie there on the mattress, and when the door opens next I don't even look up, expecting it to be another blue plastic bottle arriving. Haute cuisine in the form of a three-course meal, perhaps. Very funny.

No, they're telling me to get on my feet. This time it's a bit harder, but I'm still mobile. For Christ's sake, I've probably been sleeping half the time anyway. I need to get a grip. 

The two gun muzzles are a few inches from my back again and I try to walk fairly briskly, not wanting any more reminders that they're there. I'm stiff and sore, though, not to mention the light-headedness that has been around again ever since that night from hell. But I'll get them to make that contact somehow if it kills me. Before the little fight I've got left in me dwindles and dies.

Another soldier, outside the door and wearing different insignia from the bunch I've encountered so far, opens it for me and I follow him in and stop dead.

There's a captain – yes, the figure who gave me the once-over – another guy with a whole lot of impressive stuff on his fatigues… and Malone.

I'm so amazed it robs me of my voice, and I stand there staring until I see Malone get to his feet rapidly.

"Sam," he says, frowning at me before telling somebody to get me a chair in his iciest of tones. One appears, and I sit down like an automaton, then know I have to say something. Malone's standing beside me, with what looks like relief and concern on his face.

"Are you all right, Mr. Curtis?" he says before I get anything out. "We have been extremely concerned about you."

"I'm… fine," I say, a little huskily, the reaction preventing me from being more coherent.

Malone doesn't look like he's particularly convinced about that and throws a rather annoyed look at the other two.

"How the hell have you been treating him?"

"Fairly, for a prisoner who won't give his name. Sir." The captain is obviously fairly in awe of Malone but still standing his ground.

"Sam?" Malone's voice is calm, measured. I hesitate for a moment but since he's in the company of what looks like a high-ranking member of the Israeli army, this probably isn't the time to complain about the lack of comfort and the rather fist- and boot-happy troops. 

*Why* is Malone here, anyway? In person? What does this mean about Chris? Logic says it needed bigger brass than my partner to get me out of here, but surely he'd have come too if…

"It was okay," I say, wanting this out of the way because the shock is now giving away to a lot more things. "Sir? Can I ask…?"

"Not now, Mr. Curtis," Malone interrupts me fairly firmly, still alternating my Christian name and surname, which is quite surreal. "Questions and answers in due course. Now if you would be so kind, General?"

"Sure, Harry," the big shot speaks for the first time. Harry, eh? But why doesn't Malone answer my fucking question? He knows what I'm going to ask – I can see that in his eyes, somehow, but I can't read anything into the now impassive expression. 

It's only sense, a little voice says. Shouldn't start blurting out who I was with on the mission. Not in front of the small fry at least. I'm not doing as good a job as Malone with keeping my emotions in order, but I'm not completely stupid. Just desperate to know.

"We're going to a kibbutz tonight," Malone says almost conversationally as I get to my feet. "Curfew, of course. Should be a little more comfortable than this."

I don't care where we're going at this moment as long as it's away from here and I can find out what I need to go before much longer. As we go outside – it's dusk, I realise – I can see a jeep waiting there. The General turns to the local captain for some sort of goodbyes as we reach the exit, and I look at Malone's face, almost entreating, unable to wait.

"Chris, sir? Backup? Did they… are they…?"

"They are well," Malone says, taking pity on me and speaking softly. "Mr. Keel was slightly injured but…"

He breaks off, because the relief's so great that a tidal wave of dizziness hits me and I falter, and stumble. Malone grabs onto me, getting an arm around my waist as my knees threaten to buckle. That hurts, too, but it's better than the ignominy of ending up on the floor. The General notices.

"What the -? Harry, does he need a doctor? There's one at the kibbutz…"

"No," I manage to get out, forcing myself to straighten up but infinitely glad of Malone's support and lacking the self-pride to refuse it. "I was hurt… earlier. Before getting here. I'm just tired."

Malone gives me a long look and steers me to the car. Once installed, with the General in the front, I take some long, deep breaths and try to get myself in control. The relief is so immense, so overwhelming I have to swallow back what feels suspiciously like tears.

Unexpectedly, like the use of my name earlier, Malone gives my shoulder a brief pat. 

"Slightly injured?" I ask despite myself, barely audibly.

"A leg wound. Nothing serious," Malone says calmly. "He's already complaining about it, if that tells you anything."

It does, and I find myself managing a weak chuckle. 

"Sounds familiar," I say. 

Malone smiles, now. A genuine, warm smile. 

"Indeed. Soon have you home, Sam," he says. 

 

~*~*~

 

 

Chris

I go through training as usual but I’m distracted, worried, and I can’t seem to keep my concentration. Almost two weeks have passed since I woke up in the hospital, and I’m back to square one.

All the panic about what’s happened to Sam has returned full force. I’ve been driving headquarters crazy all day, calling whenever I have a spare second to find out whether or not they’ve heard from Malone. Every time they’ve heard nothing, and I just get more panicked.

Come on Sam. Come back to me. 

When training is finally over and I’m allowed to leave, I drive straight round to headquarters, determined to track Malone down myself if I have to.

As it turns out, I don’t have to.

I search out Backup the second I get through the door, and head over to her desk, where she’s holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder as she scribbles notes.

I don’t care who she’s talking to. I want to know how to get hold of Malone, and I want to know now.

“Backup, how do I…”

She frowns and waves a hand at me, gesturing me to keep quiet. I sigh and inwardly fume, just about to interrupt again when she speaks.

“Sorry sir, could you repeat that?”

Sir?

Malone.

This is it. It’s only now I know who’s on the end of the phone that I notice half the staff have stopped working, and are watching Backup nervously.

Just like me, they’re waiting for news of Sam.

I feel sick.

My eyes don’t leave Backup for a second as she continues talking, and I’m desperately trying to work out what’s being said from the one-sided conversation. Unfortunately, Backup’s being her usual efficient self, and not saying anything I can interpret.

“Yes, sir. Uh-huh.” A pause. “Tuesday. Right. What time?” More silence. “I’ll tell him, sir.”

Another few seconds and she hangs up, scribbling something down quickly before turning to face me.

Our eyes meet for a split second before she breaks into a broad grin. “Sam’s with Malone,” she says, raising her voice slightly so that it carries to the rest of the office. “He’s fine.”

A half cheer, half sigh of relief breaks out across the office, and there’s a buzz of excited chatter around me as everyone starts talking at once.

I reach out almost blindly for a chair and sink gratefully into it, suddenly feeling quite light-headed.

Sam’s alive. And he’s also with Malone, which means he’s safe now. 

“Chris? You alright?” Backup comes round her desk and perches on the edge of it, looking at me with a slight frown.

It’s a second before I can find my voice. “Fine,” I mutter, suddenly finding myself having to force back a lump in my throat. Backup smiles, and squeezes my shoulder.

I glance up at her and grin.

“He made it,” I state happily. “Did you speak to him?”

She shakes her head. “Malone said he was taking a shower. He said that Sam was ‘as well as could be expected’,” I start at this, but her next words reassure me slightly, “and that they’d be flying home tomorrow.”

“What time?”

“Oh, no, Chris,” she replies. “Malone said on no account are you to go to the airport. As of now you’re on standby to go undercover, so going to meet the head of CI5 at the airport isn’t exactly a good idea.”

I sigh, but don’t bother protesting. I can see the logic behind his argument, even if I don’t like it. Besides, it’s not as if I could pour my heart out to Sam with Malone standing next to us, is it?

Seeing that Sam’s alright for myself and talking things through with him can wait another hour or so until Malone’s out of the way.

Both Backup and I stand up at the same time, and before I know what I’m doing I find myself gathering her up in a bear hug and swinging her round.

She yelps in surprise, then laughs and returns my hug before pushing me gently away. 

“I’m going home,” she announces with more than a little relief. “And so are you,” she adds. She’s obviously trying to be stern, but the twinkle in her eyes gives her away. “Go on, Chris. Go home and get some rest. Sam will be back tomorrow, and he’ll give me hell if you look as exhausted as you do now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, and grin at her again before turning and leaving CI5. Once inside my car, though, I realise that I’m too restless to go home, and instead find myself driving over to Sam’s flat.

I’m not really sure why, I just find myself driving in that direction and decide to go with it.

Letting myself in with my spare key, the first thing that hits me as I walk through the door is how cold it is. 

Sam must have turned the heating off before he left for Israel, because the flat is like an ice box. It takes me a few minutes to find the thermostat and the boiler, but I switch it back on, determined to make the place warm. 

Half Sam’s plants have died as well, so I use a sudden burst of energy watering the ones that have survived, sorting out the others, gathering the mail together and generally sprucing the place up a bit. Considering this is Sam’s flat, the place is practically spotless anyway, but there are a few things out of place that I know will probably irritate him when he gets back.

Half an hour later I’m happy with the state of things, and the plants are looking a little healthier at least. It’s then I decide that I’m hungry and decide to root through Sam’s kitchen, see if there’s something I can eat.

Unfortunately there isn’t, and Sam’s cupboards are almost as bare as mine. Now while I might be quite happy living off leftovers and regular pizza deliveries, I know how much that would irritate Sam.

With the conversation that we’ve got to have, an irritated Sam is probably not a good idea. With that in mind, I jump back in the car and head to the nearest supermarket. It can’t take that long to go round a shop buying healthy food that Sam would approve of.

Can it?

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

We reach the kibbutz after an hour, passing the barbed-wired gates and watchtower and rolling up at a featureless row of concrete bungalows. Malone, I notice, has a hand at my elbow as I get out but I don't need it. Or rather don't let myself.

I'm shaky, yes, but the relief seems to have given me a little more control now. I've basked in it throughout the drive, pushing all the other stuff to the back of my mind and just let my thoughts wander to pleasant, non-sexual images of my partner bouncing through life and CI5. That at least counteracted the other visions of Samira and the village that have never really left me for – however long it's been.

"What day is it?" I ask Malone as they show us into a small, highly functional suite with two bedrooms, a tiny sitting room and bathroom.

"Monday," Malone tells me, dumping a small bag. "We were fortunate Ari here –" he indicates his uniformed friend "had kept up your contact in Jerusalem."

I can't quite bring myself to be overflowing with gratitude for the Israelis in general at the moment, but manage a nod. 

"The Palestinians gave you a bad time?" the General queries. He's followed us into the room.

"No," I snap, unable to help myself. "Without them I'd have been dead."

Malone throws me a warning look, so I don't say any more. 

In the end, Malone saves us from any further discussion by asking for clean clothes for me, food, and for us to be woken in time for tomorrow's flight. The General takes the hint and disappears, and I realise Malone's taking a good look at me.

"I presume a shower would be welcome," he says mildly. 

Oh, it would. I can't exactly have been sending out waves of roses and lavender in the jeep but nobody commented. 

I take myself in there and turn the water on. It's a whole lot more efficient than the rather unpredictable plumbing at Samira's tiny house and there are even the hotel-type bottles of shampoo and shower gel on the sink. Much as I'm far from kindly disposed to the Israelis at the moment, it can't hurt to appreciate their plumbing.

Letting the warm water cascade over me, I stay there for a long time. My body's sore, and I empty both bottles in an effort to clean away the dirt and probably some of the memories too. 

Vaguely, I think I hear Malone on the phone, probably contacting HQ, and wish I could talk to Chris. Then somebody knocks at the door and more voices murmur. I just hope they haven't sent a doctor, as I'm not in the mood for prodding.

Finally, I step out of the water and look at my clothes with resignation. They'd probably stand up by themselves, but despite Malone's request I hardly think the kibbutz will have come up with any replacements for them yet. 

I hesitate for a minute or two, then start to shiver now the hot water's no longer warming me. For some reason, I just can't bear to put them back on, remembering getting dressed and leaving Hamidah what seems like centuries ago.

In the end, I anchor one towel around my waist and sling another one over my shoulders. With a bit of luck I can grab a blanket from the bed or something.

No. Malone sees me emerge and motions to a tidily-folded pile of clothing on the table, and beside it a large covered tray with a bottle of red wine and one of mineral water.

I pick up what turns out to a set of navy blue sweats – not new, but roughly my size. Malone, I realise, is staring at me or more precisely at the various stages of bruising all over my torso – some, now faded, from my first brush with the Israelis and some more angry ones from the last few days. Plus, of course, the scar and its neat line of stitches.

Malone nods almost to himself as I head off for one of the bedrooms and pull on both halves, plus a pair of boxers. A little warmer now, I go back in there.

"Better?" Malone asks pleasantly. 

"Yes. Thanks." I'm still not all too familiar with Malone in friendly-mode, but I take the other (functional, of course) armchair opposite one, noticing that the food, crockery and bottles have migrated to the table.

"I called in to HQ," he says, opening the wine. "And your colleagues were extraordinarily pleased to know you are safe. Now," he pauses. "I think some food and wine might be a wise move."

I'm not altogether convinced about either, but sense says that the food at least might help, at least with the dizziness. And the red wine – despite the instinctive link I make with both nights in Hamidah's house – might be welcome too. 

"So," Malone says as he hands me a glass and looks rather quizzically at what looks like cold chicken. "Do you feel up to talking?"

"Yes, sir," I say automatically, although I have no idea where to begin.

"Not a de-briefing," Malone adds. "Just a few details. And take your time – eat while we talk. I presume the restaurant facilities at the army camp left a little to be desired. And elsewhere perhaps – they say you were brought there on Saturday."

I take a long breath, a sip of the wine, and try to organise my mind a little. I try to make the account as brief as possible, limiting the details of my stay with Samira to the bare minimum. When I get to the part about the rockets hitting the village, I shudder despite myself and Malone fills up the glass.

"Israeli rockets?" he says, thoughtfully. "Well I wouldn't be so sure."

"There's not much doubt," I say. "I don't exactly think they'd fire on their own people."

It sounds belligerent, and I suppose I should apologise but Malone's looking thoughtful.

"You know Al Khayal disappeared? Well of course you do. But our sources – including Ari – believe he may be trying to bring the latest outbreak of trouble to a head in any way he can. The Israelis categorically deny they or any of their units fired on any villages last week, although there were several incidents. Just as the Palestinians – or at least the moderate factions - will not admit to car bombings in Jerusalem."

"So it's the extremists," I say.

"According to our sources, the only extremist group that would fire on its own people is the one led by Al Khayal," Malone says, quietly. "They want the Israelis out, and he has enough non-locals among his people to attack Palestinian settlements just to show them up in a bad light."

I stare at him. 

"But the villages have had trouble with Israeli hooligans – " I start, then the warped logic of it starts to sink in. And the horror and disgust at knowing that my… my friends were killed by terrorists acting in the name of their own. 

"They – the people I was with – hated Khayal," I tell Malone. 

"And with reason," he nods. "Fortunately Ari, who is in fact a personal friend of mine going back a great number of years, is also one of the top intelligence officers in the country. He has people undercover, supplying information, and most of it is highly reliable. It's hardly sufficient to undo a lot of the damage that's been done, but…"

He leaves the sentence hanging, and I sigh bitterly.

"He got it wrong about Al Khayal's compound, though."

"Both sides have their infiltrators," Malone says. "And trusting people is extremely difficult. Like the entire situation. Eat, Sam."

The last two words seem incongruous, somehow, when we're discussing the whole mess of the Middle East, but I obey almost automatically, picking up a chicken leg and discovering it doesn't taste bad at all. 

I'm more interested in talking than eating, though, and soon look up at my boss again, fascinated and almost suspicious of all this openness.

"So where's Al Khayal now? Anybody know?"

"We have certain information," Malone says. "And the situation develops daily. I was in Tel Aviv with Ari when we heard a prisoner had been taken near to one of the villages that was attacked. One who spoke English, wouldn't give his name, and had asked for your contact name in Jerusalem. We weren't certain it would be you…"

No, I suppose not, I tell him. I could have been attacked by Palestinians, broken, killed and the information used. That figures.

"I see you haven't lost your analytical capacities, Sam," Malone says, and I notice that the Mr. Curtis seems to have disappeared altogether for the time being. 

"So we get another chance at him?" I ask.

"Other opportunities may present themselves," he says. "And yes I'm aware you would be most anxious to participate. First, however, you need to recover. You were very fortunate to make contact with us, on both occasions."

I nod, absently, remembering the first phone call. It's occurred to me more than once while in my cell that maybe that call and my presence there were, in some way I couldn't explain, behind the attack on that particular village. When I ask Malone if they'd traced it, he does some analytical thinking of his own before replying.

No, he tells me. Thirty seconds is far too short for any sort of precise tracking and whatever equipment Al Khayal could possibly have available couldn't have done better than CI5's own systems. He very much doubts that me being there had any bearing on the choice of target, if that puts my mind at rest. The attacks were random, and often those frequently subjected to hooliganism from the Israelis, to increase the credibility of it all. Did that settle my mind?

He's no fool, Malone, and I manage a faint smile as he tops up my wineglass yet again.

"I imagine," he says softly, "that finding yourself cared for by theoretical enemies was a very strange sensation."

I look at him, puzzled at the astuteness and yet seeing nothing but straightforward concern there rather than any hints that he might be questioning my sense of duty.

"It was," I admit. "But they didn't try to brainwash me or anything if that's…"

"I wasn't getting at anything of the sort," Malone says. "Let's just say I have found myself in a similar situation at one point, and do understand how it feels."

The surprise on my face must be evident, so he continues with that tiny smile in the corner of his mouth.

"There is, I believe, still room for a little humanity in this world, Sam. Perhaps we have too little opportunity to show it or even to see it in our profession."

The sincerity in his voice is genuine, I'd swear to that. What makes me challenge him, though, I don't know.

"But the First Rule is the only way to play it if you're in CI5?"

"You must have done a great deal of thinking these last weeks," Malone says, thoughtfully. And what were your conclusions on that particular subject?"

"That rules were made to be broken. Sir." I say it almost without thinking, and blame the wine. Then, as an afterthought: "or at least adapted a little according to circumstances."

To my utter amazement, Malone chuckles. 

"Nicely put. And very true. No one – including myself and yourself – can be expected to put personal involvement aside all the time and under all circumstances. But it is a rule that I personally set great store by during missions. Miss Backup was forced to obey it by getting Mr. Keel out of trouble when both of them would have preferred to stay and look for you, simply because it was essential that she took a logical decision rather than an emotional one. It no doubt saved your partner's life."

"She did?" I find myself grinning approvingly. Although I do wonder if I could have done the same in her shoes if Chris had gone missing.

"Indeed," Malone says, sharing the remains of the bottle between our glasses.

"She's good," I murmur, thoughtfully. "Probably better at rules than either Chris or myself."

"Or even myself," Malone comments, eliciting another stare from me. "Don't look at me like that, Sam. Being a bastard is part of what is required from me. Another rule, if you like. It earns respect if nothing else, and obedience and efficiency are what makes CI5 effective. As well as the resourcefulness of its operatives, who although you may find it hard to believe, I value tremendously."

I really can't believe this is happening. I'm completely lost for words and finish off my glass in one large gulp.

I have to say something. The dizziness is more like a sort of mellow buzz, now and I'm relaxed enough to loosen up a bit.

"I – appreciate you saying so," I say.

"Good," Malone says, slightly more briskly. "Because I still expect you to abide by… by the principle behind the rule, if you wish to put it that way. And most of all I expect you to stay alive. Training is expensive, as George Cowley used to say."

I chuckle, but still find it hard to believe all this is happening. I think Malone realises this and shakes his head as though he's rather surprised by it all too. If this goes on much longer, it's going to get uncomfortable for both of us, I think. Time to change the subject.

"You said Chris was slightly injured?" I ask him, and immediately wonder if this was the wisest topic to broach as I've already asked him that. "He's all right now, though?"

"Virtually," Malone says. "Except for all the usual frustration that inaction implies for someone of his nature."

"To put it mildly," I mutter, remembering a few other occasions. 

"He was extremely concerned about you," he adds, almost conversationally. "As were we all."

This sinks in, and I can imagine Chris making everybody's life a misery at both the hospital and HQ. It makes me feel rather emotional, suddenly, but I refuse to sink into that sort of thought. Not now.

"And been pumping everybody for information and getting up Spence's and Backup's nose in the process," I say rather rashly.

"Indeed," Malone smiles openly. "Apparently he was just the same in the SEALs. But his preference for being active rather than too much – reflection is part of his nature, perhaps fortunately, given…"

He stops, then, and I'm once again realising that Malone also seems tired and looser-tongued than normal.

"Given what happened to his wife?" I suggest, and he nods. 

"Yes. I thought he would have told you. A tragedy," Malone says. "I knew his father, incidentally. Not well, but well enough to appreciate that he was a man of extremely high principles and had an outstanding career."

Just for a change, I'm raising my eyebrows.

"Oh, that had nothing to do with him joining CI5," Malone assures me. "He was recommended by his unit and no favouritism was involved. His commander was as sorry to see him leave as some of your superiors, and particularly Karl Dietrich, were to see you go. But both of you needed a change."

"And we got it," I say, almost jokingly, but digesting this new piece of information. I'd always thought MI6 were delighted to see the back of me. Well, well.

"Do you regret it?" Malone shoots back, and I don't answer for a moment or two. 

"Not often," I say, honestly. "But sometimes."

"That's natural. If those times you had doubts didn't exist, then your place would not be in the job you do. Now –" the brisk tone is back, and Malone's collecting plates, glancing at his watch. "You should get some sleep. It's nearly midnight and I believe our call will be before six."

That's probably not a bad idea, and I hoist myself out of the chair, still stiff. 

"Thanks, sir."

"Thank me?" It's Malone's turn to raise an enquiring eyebrow. "No thanks necessary. You'll be cursing me again very soon, I can assure you. But there is a time for everything."

I head for the bedroom, pondering on a lot of what's been said and a few things that haven't, yet infinitely grateful for the evening we've just spent. Not just discovering that behind the pompous old bastard there's a façade I've only glimpsed for fleeting moments in the past, but also rather touched that he chose to reassure me as he's done.

Tomorrow, I'll see Chris. And that will mean my own armour plating will have to be back in earnest. Whatever Malone says about the First Rule needing to be broken from time to time, my partner, and the man I love, is going to see Sam Curtis abiding by it. To the letter. 

 

~*~*~

 

I spend the night tossing and turning, wanting to sleep but not feeling tired for some reason. 

I mull over what the evening we've just spent, and now and then drift off into complex and disturbing dreams that interweave Chris, the Israeli army, the Palestinians and Malone. It feels as though I wake up every ten minutes. As usual, I have no idea of time but when I'm sure it's starting to get light I take myself into the bathroom and rather cheekily decide to borrow Malone's razor. As if being cleanly-shaven is going to clear my head a bit.

Looking at myself as I wield the cut-throat device, I decide that considering I feel so – so changed somehow, my face looks very much like it always did. OK, I look tired and a bit thinner, but it's the same old Sam Curtis staring back at me. 

Well, that's what Chris is going to get. I'm even more determined about that than ever now. I'll be the guy he used to know, good mate, good partner (that is, as long as Chris hasn't decided differently). No more.

Oh hell. Has Chris talked about my move on him to anybody? 

Now that must be one of the *very* few topics I haven't chewed to death over the past few days. I've already been through whether he'll actually want me as a partner, and let those fears join all the rest, but I have no idea whether he's – horror of horrors – told somebody about the fact he's now stuck with a gay partner that kisses in car parks. 

So that's the baggage I take on the plane with me. A couple of brand new worries and enough to stop me sleeping yet again. Congratulations, Curtis. 

Malone's still pleasant, and he's still on 'Sam'. I supposed I half-wondered whether the CI5 controller mode would be back this morning, but it isn't. I'm sure our touchdown on British soil will signal the end to it, somehow, so there's no point in being disappointed when the Mr. Curtis starts up again.

Well, actually I am disappointed, and big time but not because of that.

I suppose I'd been longing for Chris to meet me. However, our welcoming committee is both Backup and Rebecca, and we get ushered through a special entrance to customs where's they're waiting for us. I glance over at Malone, who's looking rather superior. 

Backus startles me by throwing her 'I am Malone's sidekick' pose to the winds and giving me a hug, and even Rebecca says she's pleased to see me. 

Malone clears his throat after this moment of effusion, and informs me that Rebecca will be taking my to my flat, has the spare keys and 'replacement equipment' for me, while he will return to HQ. I start to argue that I can come in too, but he silences me with a glance that says 'Don't push it, Mr. Curtis," rather than 'sure, Sam, whatever.' He also informs me that the doctor will be calling. 

Great. I expect that as well as the normal medical once-over, I'll also be in for the shrink session that always follows what's officially known as a 'traumatic mission', meaning those where people get killed or we're knocked around a bit more than usual. Wonder if Chris has been through that yet? He hates all the squad's psychologists without exception, although from what I've imagined he probably went through more than his share of that after Teresa.

I'm so busy thinking about Chris – just for a change – I almost miss the fact that it's time to separate our ways. To my amazement, Malone indulges in one last demonstration of his softer side.

"Take all the rest you need before starting on the report, Sam. No immediate hurry."

As he sails off, I see Backup's eyes widen at the familiarity and Rebecca looks at me in utter astonishment.

Rebecca's a nice girl, I think as she steers me to one of the pool cars. Quiet, efficient, and one hell of a lot faster on the draw than loopy, more-boobs-than-sense Geraldine. Chris, as I recall, likes our telephonist from hell, but then he liked Kirsten as well. 

Well, who he flirts with in future is strictly up to him.

Rebecca, being sensible, doesn't push me to say much on the drive to my flat. She tells me they were all really worried, and that Chris will be over later but he's busy preparing for a mission.

What mission? I very nearly ask but I've not been away quite long enough to addle my brains to that extent. Oh, for Christ's sake, though – are we already no longer partners? Wouldn't Malone have said something? Was all the nice stuff just him softening the blow?

I probably look a bit glum at this – my shields need a bit of oiling and greasing, and she grins wryly.

"He was pissed off about it this morning, because he wanted to come and meet you, Sam. Probably regrets having to go off on this now you're back."

I try to feel reassured, but still don't feel very comfortable with it.

"I thought he was hurt?"

"He was," she says. "But this is for something coming up in a few days, and he's just about back in shape.."

Oh, so he'd written me off then, a little voice says. Then I chide myself for being ridiculous. CI5 isn't going to grind to a halt because Sam Curtis went missing. 

I don't comment and watch grey, rainy London slide past. It's light years away from where I've been and I don't know whether I'm happy to see it or not. In fact I feel confused and miserable and even seeing my own place as we finally roll up doesn't change that.

Rebecca's got a whole bag of stuff out of the car and starts handing it over, complete with forms to sign: gun, passcard, mobile phone, plus my own laptop that was back at HQ. I admire Malone's efficiency for a moment or two because this must have been organised while I was in the shower back at the kibbutz.

"Oh," she says. "And he says put in for a new watch and anything else you're missing."

Oh my. She sounds quite impressed herself.

We stand for a minute or two, and I wonder if to ask her if she wants a coffee or something, but she seems to sense my awkwardness and says she has to get back. On her way out, though, he pauses.

"I really am glad you're OK, Sam. We all are."

I feel quite emotional now, suddenly. I'm standing here in the middle of my own place and it's like getting back from a job or even a holiday always is, but amplified by ten. It's strange yet familiar, and I don't really seem to fit here properly yet.

Sense says to sit down and put my feet up, since I don't exactly have any unpacking to do. For some reason, though, I feel like I should be doing something although I don't know what.

First, I pull out my spare watch and then realise how strange that feels, too, to simply be able to look down at my wrist and see what time it is. On impulse, I glance at my cupboards and suppose I should put something other than a faded navy sweatshirt and pants. 

Later.

Then, deciding that I'm thirsty and that anyway it will be something practical to do, I decide to move on to the kitchen. If I'm lucky, there'll be some mineral water in the fridge or an unopened carton of orange juice. It's so long I can't remember what I left in there.

I stare as I open it. On the shelves are various things, ranging from some mixed cold meats, prepared salad, cheese, milk, butter, what looks like a steak, and a bag of ready-chopped vegetables. The last item reminds me of Grandma, and brings a lump to my throat because I'm already touched. There's a bottle of wine in the door, plus juice, plus mineral water. In fact, there's even a fresh loaf in the breadbin.

It's not like me to get emotional about the contents of my kitchen, but I stand there staring for a minute or two realising that my CI5 colleagues are the nearest thing I've got to a family apart from a father I see about twice a year. And don't really have what you could call a close relationship with anyway. I wonder if they told him I was missing? Or if he even cared? 

No, I'm not going to go there. I'm just suddenly, pathetically grateful for all this. Quite a few of us borrow absent friends' keys when they're due back and get a couple of things in, particularly if they've been in hospital or something. I just hadn't expected it somehow, or even given it a passing thought.

And was it Backup or Chris? Or even Rebecca? Anxiously, I look for clues but find none at first. All of them know my tastes are more of the healthy kind than Chris', of course, but this could have been my partner being thoughtful or Backup being her usual efficient self…

The wine's a fairly unpretentious Riesling, but neither Chris nor Backup could tell a Pouilly Fumé from a crappy Liebfraumilch to save their lives, more's the pity. So that tells me nothing. Anybody can get advice from Sainsbury's wine department. Or at least if they actually manage to find anyone better than some uninformed youth who knows even less about the stuff than my colleagues. 

It's pitiful, really, but I'm not here to bemoan the failings of anyone at this moment. I'm just letting my mind wander, trying to picture Chris and his usual puzzled frown as he attempts to read the labels on bottles before reaching for beer.

Ah yes, beer. 

There are a couple of bottles of Bud in there, but when I think about it I bought some well before we went away. So that's no help.

Damn, I wish I knew but I do a little more detective work. The cupboards, when I open them, reveal a few tins and some pasta and rice – my normal emergency rations – and a large box of chocolate chip cookies. The ones Chris can eat in massive quantities because, naturally, it's 'not worth keeping just a couple, huh?'

He cares.

I don't want him to. 

I do.

Just not like *that*, though. 

Who are you kidding, Sam Curtis?

All the resolve threatens to crumble as I pick up the packet and some juice and finally sink down onto my settee, to see the mail sitting there in a neat pile. 

Forcing my mind off relationships for a minute or two, I start opening the usual pile of junk mail and bills, chewing on a cookie and hoping the strangeness of it all will wear off soon. Then the doorbell rings and my heart leaps absurdly.

I bolt over to the camera, hoping to see the familiar spiky head leaning on the bell and grinning up at me but instead, there's a greying one, although no less well-known.

"Hi, doc," I say wearily.

I suppose of the few doctors CI5 use I'd rather it was Irving than anyone. He's down to earth, stands no nonsense but at least listens to what we say. He even uses words we can understand, although on the down side he tends to ignore bullshitting about getting back to work earlier than he deems appropriate.

"Sam," he grins. "Been in the wars again. Let's have a look at you."

Well, it's inevitable I suppose so I'm about to strip down to the waist when the doorbell rings again. And this time it is Chris and I don't know how to handle it. 

I really don't particularly want him witnessing all this, but considering Irving's car is probably parked outside and the guy drives – of all things – a yellow beetle known to the entire organisation, he's not just going to go away again. And, of course, Chris has a key.

"Come on up," I say, not knowing whether it sounds resigned, cold or friendly. 

I open the door feeling extraordinarily nervous, which makes the damned light-headedness come back. My mouth's dry.

"Sam." Chris gives me a look that spells assessment and delight and diffidence all in one. "Buddy, I – "

He is, I think, on the point of giving me a bear hug or something. His arms start to move towards me as he catches sight of Irving and thinks better of it.

"Hi, doc."

"Afternoon," Irving says. "Sit down and behave yourself. And remember to see me tomorrow morning. *No* excuses this time or I shall tell Malone you are refusing to co-operate."

"Uh-huh." Chris retreats to the armchair looking a little subdued. He's limping very slightly and trying to disguise it, but then I know him well.

"Right," Irving says. "Let's get this over with. Start from the top, Sam."

I try to make the account as brief as possible, but Irving isn't standing for any gaps and asks for details about how long I was out of it after the first attack. Chris, I realise, looks – I don't know – upset, I think, when I grudgingly admit how long it was. 

Neither of us like to see the other hurt, I insist to myself. Never did. Even before I started to think of him differently it used to make me feel completely chewed up inside to see him in pain, so I suppose it's a normal, partner-type reaction. 

Of course it is. 

Then the prodding starts. The embroidery, apparently, is nicely done although the medication was probably not exactly up to Western standards. 

I fire back at him – more defensively than is called for - that it was all they had available, but he restricts himself to a slight raising of the eyebrows and sticks a thermometer in my mouth to shut me up.

"And the second beating was when? Saturday?"

I grunt a reply as my mouth is still full, and grunt some more when his fingers run over the bruising on my ribs and side again. 

At last he's finished and starts fishing out bottles, with warnings that medication is neither optional nor a frivolous whim on the part of the medical profession. He even glances over at Chris at this point, who looks suitably penitent. 

"You're lucky," Irving says at last, snapping the bag shut. "Probably could have been a lot worse. But the bruising is deep and you're still running a fever, probably while that absorbs and also because you're exhausted. Ten days off active, Sam. Minimum. Stitches out tomorrow and see me Friday afternoon, at HQ. Light office duties if you really must as of Thursday and if you have no temperature. Plenty of sleep."

"Thanks," I say miserably. 

"Oh, and eat properly. I'd say you'd lost a fair bit of weight, but shouldn't be any problem to put back…" he casts a stray glance at the cookies and I offer him one.

"I said properly," he repeats. "And no alcohol until I say so."

Chris actually chuckles faintly and sees him to the door.

Here we go.

 

~*~*~

 

After a few minutes on our own, I've realised Chris feels weird, too, and both of us are talking inconsequential nonsense about cookies and Irving and the flight from Tel-Aviv. Neither of us are saying anything we mean.

"You want to take this from the top again?" he says, finally. "I'm really glad you're okay, buddy. I was scared."

That came from the heart, but that's just normal concern between partners, I decide. Maybe, just maybe, this will be OK. 

"So was I. I didn't know…"

"If we'd made it. I figured. But don't kill Gerry, OK?"

"Not yet," I say, still a little angry about that but realising that's typical of Chris. He probably yelled at her at the time but as usual has filed all the anger away and is now all sweetness and light again. Back to admiring those characteristics more evident than her brains.

"Not ever," he grins. "Malone chewed her out. I might have shouted a little. That's probably enough, huh?" 

I nod absently, deciding that one question just can't wait.

"Rebecca says you're on a job."

"Yeah. And I wish I wasn't now you're back, Sam. But Malone's hardly gonna let me back out of it now. By the time it's over, though, you'll be back in shape. I'll –" he hesitates, "miss you though. Be glad when things are back to normal."

I'm not sure if I'm getting the message here. But both phrases again sound definitely like Chris, who isn't in the habit of couching messages in double meanings. 

Mates and partners, then, if he puts the 'missing' bit next to the 'back to normal' bit. All partners miss each other when they're split up because of injury. Of course. 

This is what I want, though, isn't it. 

Like hell. But it looks like he's reached the same conclusions as I have. 

I don't know what my expression's doing, but the concern in his eyes is still more than evident. 

"Sam, you OK? You don't look great."

"Tired," I say honestly. "Bit light-headed. But like the doc said, I was lucky."

"Sure." Chris looks miserable, for some reason and I want to cheer him up.

"Hey, thanks for the food. You want to come and share some of it with me tomorrow night?"

The dimples are back. Jesus, they shouldn't be allowed. And it *was* him. But, I reprimand myself, I've asked him for a meal, not to be thrown on his back and stripped naked and…

"Hey, great. But you sure you'll be okay tonight? I could stay?"

YES, my mind screams. 

"I'll be fine," I say, raking up some good sense. "Really… and that is if you're free tomorrow. I mean…"

"The job won't start for a week or so, Malone doesn't think," he says. "So sure. About seven?"

"Fine," I tell him. "Fine."

I want him here with me now. All night. Holding me and…oh, Christ. 

"I'll be going then," he says, frowning a little. "And like I said… it's great to have you back. But you should rest."

He gives my shoulder a squeeze, then. I can't interpret squeezes, but it actually makes me tremble. 

It's a friendly squeeze, not a lover's squeeze. Of course it is. But the contact nearly makes me fall apart for a second or two. 

I'm going to do a whole lot better than this if I'm not going to frighten him away from friendship, and I need that. As it's all I can ever have. 

Telling me to take it easy, he leaves and – in keeping with my emotionally-charged frame of mind – I watch him go. Hoping the seconds and hours will tick by more quickly now I have a watch again, because the following night can't come quickly enough. 

Then I feel more alone than I did even in the cell. 

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

Wasn’t this supposed to be a good thing?

Don’t get me wrong – Sam’s alive and in one piece, and I’m pathetically grateful for whoever or whatever made that happen.

But things are still awkward. Stupidly, I think I’d got it into my head that as long as Sam came home everything would be perfect. All our problems would be miraculously solved.

Of course the real world isn’t like that, and while I’m no longer frantically worried for his safety, all the questions about the state of our relationship have all returned full force.

Rebecca called me at home on Monday after she’d met Malone and Sam at the airport, just to let me know that he’d got home okay. After I knew that, my patience and resolve lasted less than an hour before I found myself driving round to his apartment to check on him myself.

How I missed the bright yellow beetle parked outside Sam’s flat I’ll never know, but I did, because I was about three seconds from enveloping Sam in a bear hug before I saw Irving standing in the corner looking slightly amused.

I reigned in my instinctive embrace with some difficulty, and settled instead for drinking in the sight of him. The relief I felt on hearing he’d been found was nothing on finally seeing him in the flesh.

He looked…well, awful. He’d visibly lost weight, had bruising and an angry line of stitches along his side that I couldn’t help wincing at. More than that, though, there was a haunted look in his eyes that I couldn’t quite place.

I kept watching him, and he kept glancing nervously over at me as Irving made him recount what had happened in the two weeks he was missing. Sam obviously tried to skim over the details, but I heard enough to upset me, and to realise just how lucky we both are that he made it out at all.

I had to bite my tongue to keep from interrupting at some of the more painful details of his journey, and mentally cursed the Israeli police for the ‘treatment’ he received at their hands over the few days he was in the cells.

So much for them being the good guys.

Irving finally left, and we were left alone for almost the first time since the kiss we shared outside Backup’s flat.

Of course all the rehearsed speeches and things I’d promised myself I’d say next time I saw him went out of my head, and we ended up chatting nervously about nothing. 

In the end I got up the courage to at least tell him how grateful I was to see him home, but it wasn’t a patch on what I wanted to say.

There goes that cowardly streak again.

But Sam was sending out strange signals, and I didn’t know how to take them. A far cry from the bear hug I’d tried to greet him with, he seemed to be almost consciously keeping his distance from me, and I found myself starting to face the fact that he might not want me after all. So I held back from making any more moves, and tried to respect his decision. After everything he’s been through, he doesn’t need an over emotional partner making things even harder.

It was difficult though, especially since in the brief time I was there he seemed to get more and more exhausted. Then he asked me round for a meal and I felt my hopes leap again. Maybe things could be sorted out over the dinner. At the very least, I could spend some time with him as friends, if not lovers.

I couldn’t quite stop myself from asking if he wanted me to stay, but he was quick to turn me down, which I suppose is a clear sign of his intentions. Just friends then. I can do friends.

I think.

Which is why, driving over to the said meal the following day, I’m maintaining nothing more than a cautious optimism. I still can’t forget everything that happened before Israel, but I’m well aware that rushing this too quickly could blow it completely.

Sam’s controlling the pace for now.

I can’t quite hide my disappointment on seeing Backup already there when I arrive. Probably blinded by my hopes, I hadn’t realised that she was invited. I guess that shows Sam’s intentions as well as anything else.

Backup must have noticed the flash of disappointment before I fought it down, though, because she spends the rest of the evening throwing me strange glances. Then again, I am the one who told her everything while Sam was missing, so if she’s intrigued I only have myself to blame. I still slip up in letting her see anything was bothering me, though. Not a good dry run for my undercover job in a few weeks. Come on, Chris, you’ve got to do better than this.

Backup’s not the only one throwing sly glances, though. I can’t seem to keep my eyes off Sam. His eyes, how distracted he seems when he’s talking about nothing, and how he keeps glancing in my direction seeming ill at ease.

I can’t figure him out. On the one hand, if he wants to sort things out between us and wants us to take things further, then why the hell did he invite Tina? Don’t get me wrong, I like her and enjoy her company, but working out a possible relationship is kind of difficult with a third person in the room. Particularly if that third person is also interested in the object of your affections.

And yet his gaze keeps straying in my direction, and his conversation is jilted as if he has his mind on other things. Either he’s still interested in me, but is pretending otherwise for Backup’s benefit (but again, we’re back to why he asked her in the first place), he’s changed his mind, or he’s worried that I’m going to make a move on him, when he doesn’t want me to.

Too many possibilities.

Backup obviously knows that something’s going on, because she’s watching us. At one stage, when the conversation is beginning to be just between Sam and me, Backup manages to bring up Kirsten, throwing me off balance enough to slide back into the conversation herself.

I could have told them the truth, that after the ridiculous date last Friday I’d decided to end it (just haven’t got round to it yet), but decided that probably wasn’t the right thing to mention just now, and manage to dredge up some excuse or other. The question of course, is did she do that on purpose, or was she just trying to make conversation as well? Sam says nothing, and I don’t know how he would take the revelation that my ‘relationship’ with Kirsten is as good as over. 

It isn’t too long after that that we leave, and any chance to talk things through with Sam has gone. Giving things one last try I offered to stay and help Sam clear up (my offering to clean is practically unheard of, and had Backup raising her eyebrows in surprise), but he turns me down, and in the end Backup and I leave together.

The only thing I can think of as I walk back towards my car is that I’m no closer to figuring out what Sam wants from me.

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

God, I'm stupid. 

I also deserve an Oscar, I think. For being friendly, chatty, and steering the conversation well away from anything even vaguely personal.

Now they've both gone – Backup and Chris. And even though Chris volunteered to stay and help me clear up. 

I talked about wine when I was thinking of Hamidah and Chris. About Israeli-Arab peace organisations when I was reflecting on the stuff in the gay rights article, and about films (okay, so I was desperate) rather than concentrate too much on Chris' snug-fitting sweater.

On one level, it was pleasant, despite the fact that Backup was doing the mother-hen bit and frowned all the way through my *one* glass of wine. Chris had several beers, insisting that he's finished all his meds now. I kept finding my eyes settling on that scar – it'll be barely visible, I decided. Like some of the others I've seen on his body when we've taken showers together. 

I had to get my mind of the idea of Chris in showers fast, at that point, and made coffee. Backup joined me, frowning.

"You really okay, Sam? You look tired?"

"A bit, but it's already better. Thanks."

"Uh-huh. But it's getting late. You're sure you're coming in tomorrow?"

"Certain. All I did today was do a bit on the laptop and cook a meal, Backup."

"Sam…"

She pursed her lips as though she was about to say something but then Chris sauntered through, so that got her nowhere.

They both looked at bit awkward on and off, I suppose, and my over-fertile mind suggested all sorts of reasons for that. 

Of course, Chris didn't know Backup would be there. When she'd called round earlier, I'd asked her to stay on the spur of the moment. It was only when I'd started chopping up the two steaks to make Stroganoff and got three plates out and into the oven that she'd figured it out, and I refused her offer to leave us to it. 

Chris had enjoyed it, too. Made no Kermit-comments and even kept off the topic of Kirsten. Or at least until Backup asked about her. 

I'd just raised my eyebrows, but Chris looked extremely embarrassed and mumbled something or other before changing the subject.

I was highly tempted to ask how her French courses were going along, but thought better of that. 

But, of course, I think as I stack the plates in the dishwasher, he's still seeing her. 

I so much wanted him to stay around and talk when Backup started to make a move, but I called up the 'you've got to be in early and I haven't' stuff and he left with her. I think – or wanted to think – he looked as though he was reluctant to leave.

"See you for a beer one night then?" he asked lightly as he left, and I managed an extremely casual "sure".

Very good, Sam. 

Mind, if he'd suggested we had a night of wild, passionate lovemaking I'd have been happier.

Oh, for Christ's sake. 

I am *not* going to think about that.

So I do, of course. Imagining sliding that soft cream sweater over his head and pulling him close to me. Hearing him moan that he wants me, his hands caressing, exploring.

I *have* to stop this. I cannot spend my time as the guy's partner if I lust after him every time I see him. 

Maybe it's a good thing he'll be away for a while.

Maybe I can even go and bury my needs by pulling some innocent bimbo and screwing her through the mattress?

Oh, sure. Like with Hamidah. 

Okay, so I'll pull some innocent *male* bimbo, then. Let him screw me through the mattress, or vice-versa. Or both. 

I've never pulled a guy like that, though. The thought of gay bars does nothing for me. In fact, the two male lovers I've had – Julien at university and Karl – both seduced *me*. I've never been the one doing the chasing, although I didn't put up much resistance with either man.

Maybe it's okay if I fantasise a little about them, then? It might take my mind off Chris at least. 

Julien – well, he was probably about as intelligent as Kirsten and studying art. He had a wonderful body, though, a bit like Chris'…

No, not down that alley, please. Unlike Chris, he was absolutely and most definitely gay. I was utterly fascinated by him when we met at some sort of French department dinner, where he'd managed to get an invitation because he was bilingual and had 'connections.' We never spoke French, though. Funny, that. Although I suppose speaking didn't play a huge role in our relationship at all. He'd offered me a lift home and kissed me, and ten minutes later we'd been in his bed. I didn't even have time to be shocked, the need was so huge.

Julien had introduced me to every single aspect of male sex, in a lightening tour that left me begging for more every time. In a way, I suppose I was lucky – he was gentle, patient, and extraordinarily skilled, although eventually the sex became all that we had in common, really. 

He'd tease me, often, that I didn't know what I'd been missing with girls, and I started to believe him. 

Then he dumped me, and I thought my heart was broken. 

It wasn't, of course. Salvation came in the form of overtures by MI6 and a long succession of girls. I'd finished with men for good, I thought.

Or I had been until Karl came along. Karl who cared about all his agents and never, ever hit on me until one evening when I was tired and hurting and his massage had turned us both on. 

We weren't in love, I suppose. But he, too, was a thoughtful lover who satisfied me more than any of the girls had done since Julien. We were playing with fire, though, so our nights together had been rare. 

When I'd been transferred, I went back to girls.

Until Chris. And even then it's taken me nearly two years to admit that – my willpower is phenomenal when I want it to be.

Oh, I'd thought about it all right, but simply put it aside. Taken Backup to bed after Karl's funeral as if to bury that part of me altogether. 

It hasn't worked, though. And even now, thinking of Julien and Karl and remembering the exquisite sensations they aroused in me, it's still Chris I'm craving for as I finally seek solitary, lonely release.

 

~*~*~

 

The Ops room the following morning is the same but not the same as it's always been. It's strange, somehow, but it always is when I've been away and particularly when somebody's been killed. 

Get a grip, Curtis. It's hardly the lions' den.

For some reason, I half-expect Chris to be slouched behind one of the monitors, jabbing at the keyboard as if it's done him some personal injury, but he's not here

People pat me on the back, and that's a weird feeling too. Chris and I have gone missing before, of course, and it was the same then. But we were *both* there. Now, I'm very conscious of all the appraising glances directed at me and me alone. Return of the – the what? Hardly a hero. 

Backup and Spence are running satellite shots of what looks like the desert, and don't have a lot of time for me so I take myself off, plug the laptop into a docking station and continue with the report.

To be honest, it shouldn't take me that long but my concentration's in pieces. I really don't know what to include and what to leave out. Of course it would be politically correct towards CI5 to note where I was and what happened, but whatever I start to write immediately places the Israelis in the role of the baddies.

I connect to a few of the incoming information files, news reports and the like and see that the press have finally found out about the massacre and are calling it a reprisal for attacks in Jerusalem, and that those injured and killed were Palestinian extremists. Or rather that's the official angle. 

I'm still skimming through various versions of it all, remembering Malone's belief that the last attack was orchestrated by Khayal, when Backup comes over and I realise it's lunchtime.

A group of us often go to the pub, so in a quest for normality I join in, still finding myself looking around for Chris. I'm trying very, very hard not to ask where he is but find out quite easily.

"Chris still with Dollinger?" Spence asks as we go out. 

"Yeah," Backup nods. "Said he'd be there most of the day. He might just join us, though."

"What's he doing there?" I ask before I've thought better of it. Dollinger is the explosives expert we always use. He's ex-SAS and knows just about everything there is to know about making things go bang in a variety of fascinating ways.

"For the job," Backup says, throwing Spence a rather irritated look. He doesn't deserve this as that's hardly classified information. It's certainly got me fascinated, though, and I'm extremely tempted push my luck. Something in two pairs of dark eyes warn me off that, however, so I sit down and look at the menu on the blackboard.

At first, I'm really not hungry. Being used to simple stuff and not much of it has become almost a habit but the waistband of my trousers tells me that it's a question of making an effort, buying new clothes or finding a tailor. I didn't even make much of a job with what I cooked last night, really.

Silly bastard, Sam, I chide myself. Fooling around like a lovesick teenager isn't going to solve anything, so I should eat something solid like a good little agent. 

"Wouldn't go for the steak and ale pie," a voice says. "I'm gonna have the lasagne."

It's Chris, coming up from behind. I feel myself stiffen and my heartbeat start speeding up. 

Luckily, Backup and Spence are saying hi so I don't think he notices anything untoward. I do order the lasagne though, and Chris pulls up a chair. Next to me.

I eat about half of it, trying not to notice that Chris' elderly jeans are extremely tight. And they're Levis 501s, which he usually doesn't wear for the office. With buttons.

Oh, for God's *sake*, Curtis.

"You don't want that?" 

Ah, familiar territory. I push my plate over almost automatically.

"No," Chris says, frowning. "The doc said you had to eat."

I roll my eyes at him but he's sizing up the desserts. I try another forkful or two and try to hide the rest under the rather sorry-looking bits of lettuce on the side. Then drink my orange juice like a good boy. 

Part of me is extremely irritated by all this and yet it's sort of endearing as well. Fortunately, Backup and Rebecca are onto another topic and Spence is buying refills, so I think they've missed the nursemaiding bit.

This is difficult, though. Usually the conversation between us is a mixture of banter, work and anything that comes into our heads, but today it's just not working. I'm actually extremely relieved when it's time to go back.

Chris slides into the chair next to mine, though, and grabs a sheaf of papers. Explosives again. And stuff on arms. What the hell *is* this 'job'?

What's even stranger is that Chris is utterly, totally absorbed in what he's reading, making notes here and there and frowning in concentration. In fact for once, I'm the one who's fiddling with the computer and doing nothing very constructive.

At one point, Harley comes in and waves to me, and drops yet more papers onto Chris' desk. Then they wander off to the coffee machine and I feel like Cinderella. 

The afternoon wears on, and wears me down as time drags past. I find myself looking at my watch – still a novelty – over and over again. Chris and Harley haven't come back, either, and for some reason that's irritating me immensely.

Surely they can't be working together? Well yes, I suppose they can. I'm off sick. Was MIA for a while. It's logical.

Usually, Malone only makes temporary teams when he doesn't have a choice, but hell, Chris has been off work as well. He's still limping very slightly as well, which means he shouldn't be back on fieldwork.

Questions, questions. And I'm getting more frustrated by the minute. 

In the end, I realise I'm getting nowhere with the damned report and finally turn the power off in frustration. I'd be better off at home, probably. I'm reading stuff into everything I see and hear and will probably start snapping people's heads off if I'm not careful.

I'm just zipping the laptop into its bag as Chris comes back.

"Going home?" he says, pleasantly enough.

"Uh-huh," I grunt, rather than suggest that no, I always clear my desk and pack up my stuff prior to spending all night here.

He looks puzzled. Or concerned. I don't know which, really, because I don't allow myself to study his face long enough.

"Want a beer later?"

I sigh. 

"No alcohol, remember." It comes out rather sharply, mainly because I really don't like the idea of noisy pubs, loud music and lots of people at this moment. 

"Ah," Chris says rather awkwardly. He hesitates and so do I. I want to ask him over to my place, but I have the feeling he's in social animal mode.

"Think I'll get an early night," I say, raking up some mock cheerfulness. "Besides, looks like you're busy."

Again, I don't look straight at him. 

"Sure." 

Is that offhand, or sympathetic? I wish I knew.

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

Fine. It looks like I finally know where I stand.

Three times I’ve suggested we stay together alone, twice at his flat, and one offer to go to the pub. He’s rejected all three.

I can’t think of a much plainer indication that Sam wants to keep things on a purely professional basis. The first two I was prepared to put down to the fact that he’s been ill, but that can’t be all it is. He’s really not interested in me.

Does it hurt?

Yes, of course it does. Hurts more than I’d like to admit, actually, considering we’ve never really been an item of any sort, but I can cope with it.

I don’t have much of a choice.

From now on, I’ll do my bit to keep things strictly friendly. Should Sam ever decide he wants things to progress further than that, then it’s up to him to tell me.

I get the feeling I’ll be waiting one hell of a long time.

I keep some semblance of dignity and leave without breaking down and asking him why the hell not, but I can’t deny the lump in my throat as I head out of Ops.

It’s daft, really. All it takes is one kiss from Sam to get me renouncing my family’s beliefs and finally embracing the fact that I like men, and now, having spent two weeks agonising about it, he changes his mind.

And there’s not a damn thing I can do but accept it.

One thing I am going to do is finish with Kirsten. It doesn’t matter that Sam’s not interested in me, (well, yes it does, but that’s beside the point), that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not interested in her.

I’ve been avoiding her calls all week, all my thoughts being focussed on Sam, but at least I can get this over with.

I pull my mobile phone out from my pocket, and dial her number.

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

The early night turns into an evening of prowling around my flat like a lost soul. I suppose I should eat but nothing tempts me until I have a sudden urge – of all things – for some vegetable soup. A reminder of Samira and Grandma, maybe. 

It could be that I haven't really digested their deaths or Richards' yet, even after all those hours thinking about them in the cell. So let's do something normal.

I finally hunt out a stray can, open it, slam a bowlful of Campbell's best into the microwave and lose interest as soon as I settle down on the sofa with it.

Pathetic, Curtis. What you really want to do is call Chris.

No bloody way. 

I'm not going to watch the news, either, with its endless views of scenery I can almost feel and smell, it's so close. Rebels, terrorists, freedom fighters. Revenge, reprisals…death.

I shudder, wishing I was anywhere but here and anything but alone.

 

~*~*~

 

Friday dawns, and the Ops rooms feels a little less like foreign territory. Despite a restless night I've at least managed to summon up a little resolve. I'm not even going to react when Chris comes in. He's a free agent (oh, clever use of words) and so am I. We're not exactly joined at the hip and if he's got a mission ahead of him, then fine. It's our job.

That works until he walks in and I feel my hands clenching over the keyboard for some reason.

He spends the morning on his papers again, disappearing now and then. I coax my mind into enough disciplined thoughts to finish off the report. It's hardly literature and is a monument to bleak, bare facts but should pass muster. 

"Going to the firing range," he says neutrally just before lunch, but doesn't go into details.

I wonder why?

Firing practice, stupid. 

Curiosity killed the cat, I decide, and take myself off to Doc Irving to return minus stitches and suitably reminded to take pills and eat. At least he doesn't moralise but I have to go back there in a week before, to quote him, I can run around and get shot at again. How original – one day he'll find a variation on that particular theme.

I find copies of Chris' and Backup's reports on the fuck-up in Al Khayal's compound on my desk to read. Fascinating. More bare facts. 

Backup and Spence are called to the inner sanctum, so I'm at a loose end. According to Spence he'll find me plenty to do next week, so I might as well go home unless I want to collate some of the latest stuff on the ex-Soviet bloc. 

Anything seems better than going home, though, so I dutifully pull up reports and files and get going.

Twenty checks of my watch later – just after six, I notice – Chris wanders back in smelling faintly of cordite and sweat, grinning. He looks… thoughtful. Wonder why?

If he asks me for a beer, I'll go. Drink mineral water or something, because he doesn't only look thoughtful he looks good enough to eat. But of course I have all the self-control it takes to handle a guys' night out without spending it ogling my partner.

We can have a chat, joke about girls, maybe. Like we used to.

Then he smashes that little idea in one fell swoop by picking up the phone and calling Kirsten, telling her he'll pick her up at seven thirty. I feel like knocking his teeth in. Fortunately, my self-control holds out as he stretches, grabs a couple of folders, and starts making a move.

"Have a nice evening," I manage to get out, although I feel like grabbing him and shaking him and asking him what in the name of God he sees in the silly cow.

Well, maybe she's willing. And she has the advantage of being female.

Backup and Spence leave soon as well, and I half-hope one of them will suggest a drink or a film or something but neither do. 

Backup, when I think about it, is acting a little strangely. She's friendly enough on the surface, just like she was last night, but some of the looks she throws my way are confusing. It's like she's half-sorry for me and half-angry with me. If I didn't have enough problems with trying to sort out with all the stuff going on with Chris I'd probably call her on it, but I honestly don't have the energy.

I sit and look at the papers in front of me for a while and decide that working on them with my concentration shot to pieces isn't going to make anybody happy, and particularly Spence and Malone.

So, I'm left with the choice of Russia, Rebecca, Sainsburys on a Friday night or picking up a bimbo and obtaining a little release that way. 

"Busy, Rebecca?" I say, idly.

"Not particularly," she grins. "As long as I don't stray from the monitors or if World War Three breaks out."

Like I said, a nice girl. 

"Chris and Harley are really working on getting this one together," I say, wondering if she'll take the bait.

"Yep. Although it's odd, wondering whether either of them will be going in at all. And together or separately," she says.

That's not helping at all. Or is it? She's too sensible to come out with any of the facts, I think, and I'd have found that out myself eventually anyway. But let's try a bit harder.

"Tricky business, though, over there." I'm trying hard to give the impression I'm in the know, which is treading on very dangerous ground. Malone would probably kill me.

"Yeah, but considering just how screwed up Chris was when you were missing, he was probably relieved to have a chance of getting back in the general area. We honestly thought he'd be storming out to the airport the day he got out of hospital."

This is a long speech for Rebecca, and she stops abruptly, looking a bit abashed. I grin encouragingly, registering the 'general area'. Where? I can't ask directly, so I'll have to skirt around a bit more.

"You know how he is."

"A bit," she admits. "But he's even more pissed off now you're back and he's due to leave again. Harley was saying earlier that Chris just wants it over so's you and he can go on the rampage again."

This sinks in slowly. Why couldn't Chris tell *me* that rather than Harley?

Now she's got into her stride, though, Rebecca's getting quite chatty.

"So I suppose you're fed up as well. Chris was saying last night you seemed to need a bit of time to re-adjust – or rather he was until that Kirsten woman called yet *again*. She's been pestering him to death. I think he was only taking her out tonight to shut her up."

What?

"She's – a little weird," I say, not taking it too far.

"Weird? Chris says she's a flake. But he was so lonely and on edge while you were away, Sam. Maybe he just needed somebody to talk to. I don't think I've ever seen him so relieved when Malone called last weekend."

I don't know what to say to all this. Does Chris care *that* much?

No, we're mates. 

"Like I said, it must be hard…" 

Rebecca's still talking and I force myself to listen.

"Hard?"

"Sure. I suppose that's why you've both been a bit subdued as well. You knowing that Chris might have to go out there again any minute."

"Any minute?" Oh damn, this is giving the game away about how little I know, and I pull myself up quickly. "I didn't think it was quite that imminent."

"Apparently it is, from what Malone and Spence heard today. Any time now, if they take the bait."

My mind's processing this rapidly. Less trouble *where*? And Chris is *bait*? Why the fuck didn't he tell me? The earlier comment about going 'back to the area' to find me is uppermost in my mind, now. 

"I don't like anybody playing bait," I say, quietly. "Least of all Chris, and least of all in that bloody mess."

"Nobody does," she says. "And you two are so close."

I raise my eyebrows, and she giggles.

"Sorry. It's just that you – well – not in the wrong way, of course, but you two do push the first rule a bit. Come on, Sam, you only had to see the way Chris was when you were missing and the change in him when he knew you were okay. If you weren't two guys and always chasing girls, it'd have got me worried."

I swallow, and am glad she can't see my heartbeat doing stupid things.

"That bad?" I say, aiming for airy, amused and surprised. The surprise, at least, is genuine.

She giggles again.

"Suppose it's normal when you're used to watching each other's backs. That's what Backup says anyway."

Backup did, did she. What the hell is going on? With Chris, me, Backup… and Rebecca, of course.

Well, there's only one thing for it. Showtime again.

I stretch, slowly, sighing.

"Backup always knows best," I say, forcing my lips into a grin. 

"She knows you pretty well, anyway." There's a tiny, sharp edge of – what? Jealousy? 

"Oh, I'm an open book. Wine, women and song."

"If you say so." Rebecca sighs in turn. "This job plays hell with your love life. Well mine, anyway."

"Tell me about it," I say, starting to collect my things. "But we're supposed to live on making the world a better place, remember."

She manages a wry grin.

"Sometimes I think that's easier than finding a guy who puts up with the hours."

"Been there, done that," I tell her, chuckling. "Just don't find yourself the male equivalent of a Kirsten."

She chuckles. "You met her?"

"Yeah, on a foursome." Oh, clever, Sam. As long as I don't say who my own date was, but I'm not that stupid. She probably knows anyway. "OK, love, I'm going to call it a day. See you on Monday?"

"Not likely," she grumbles. "I'm here all weekend. See you Wednesday, Sam."

She looks miserable all of a sudden, so on impulse I bend over and give her a quick peck on the cheek. And not *only* as part of the smokescreen. She's nice.

Now, however, I have to get out of here, and once Chris has finished with the delightful flake of the year I need to talk to him. Even if I have to kick her out of his bed to do so.

 

~*~*~

 

This is just so pathetic.

I'm standing here in front of my wardrobe, wondering what to *wear*. Visions of Chris in those battered 501s flit through my mind as I grab an elderly pair of Italian jeans that are just a little less snug fitting than his. Looser than ever, now, but I suppose it spares the bruising.

I'm killing time more than anything else, having now decided that it's not fair to call Chris in the middle of a date. So I'll leave a message on his machine or something, maybe call round tomorrow morning.

Pulling the jeans up though, the vision of Chris becomes a little more sharply defined and I imagine my fingers straying to those buttons. It arouses me, I realise with a mixture of surprise and embarrassment. At this moment, he's probably got Kirsten out of one of her cheap, revealing little numbers and having the time of his life. 

Even thinking of him naked just stokes the fire a little more, but then my emotions turn to something more like anger. 

I know I wasn't wrong about his reaction to that kiss. Keel's passions are part of him, and once fired up can get him into trouble. If we'd been inside somewhere, out of the rain, we'd probably have taken it a whole lot further as well and made things worse than ever. My own emotions, on the rare occasion I take them out and give them free reign, can be my downfall.

And would it have been a good thing if we'd ended up in bed? Would it have been as amazing as I know inside me it could be, or would we have regretted it for the rest of our days?

I don't know. I'm regretting the kiss, though, and bitterly. For what I fleetingly thought it meant and later realised it couldn't except in my own fantasies. 

I came home and actually picked up the phone before reason telling me that you don't call your straight, male partner while he's out with his (admittedly stupid) girlfriend to ask him if he's attracted to you. I mean, he's made things pretty clear, hasn't he.

Then I do a mental re-run of the conversation with Rebecca and hope rears its ugly head, plus all the fears about his coming mission. 

I can't let him go off somewhere until this is sorted. It's only fair to both of us to clear up the awkwardness once and for all. The most logical solution is to apologise sincerely, tell him he can change partners if he's not happy working with a bisexual who was suffering from a momentary lapse, which won't happen again. 

Maybe I can even pretend that I was just desperate for a lay, which is hardly complimentary to Chris but it might make him feel better.

He's going to need all his wits about him wherever he's going, I decide. So we have to get things back on an even keel (with a name like his, that one's bound to crop up now and then).

Fine, so I'll leave a message on his voice mail, tell him I'll pop over in the morning as I'd like to have a brief chat with him. 

No, my body says, you'd like to slowly roll those jeans off him…

Get real, my mind insists and punches in the mobile number before I think better of it.

I expect to be told to leave a message, but to my great surprise, Chris answers. That almost reduces me to silence immediately.

"Hi, Chris. Look, I was just thinking… well, wondering if we could…" Oh, spit it *out* for Christ's sake, "talk."

There's a pause. He's probably lying on the bed, naked, with a hot Kirsten pawing at him.

"Yeah, great," he says, and I find myself listening for background noises. Why do I have this impression she'd be highly vocal in bed? 

"So… maybe tomorrow morning?"

"How about later on tonight?" he asks, sounding fairly casual.

"I don't want to disturb…"

Liar. 

"No sweat," he says. "Maybe about ten, ten-thirty? I'll be home by then."

Home by then? The immediate urge is to ask what the hell's going on with Kirsten, but then I think I hear the familiar whining in the background, and what sounds like a bottle clinking. 

"Sam?"

I realise I haven't replied, and stutter out something about that being fine before finishing with a lame 'see you' before breaking the connection.

So what gives? Can Chris be giving up a night in Kirsten's limpet-like arms so he can come and talk to me? For a moment, I get the 'warm inside' feeling Chris jokes about sometimes, then tell myself not to be so stupid.

Maybe it's more a case of him being ready to give me a piece of his mind before rushing back to her. Of getting it over with and telling me he really does *not* appreciate being hit on by his weirdo of a partner. That's more like it.

It's still only eight-thirty, and I'm quite sure I can agonise over possible scenarios for another hour and a half. And I'm right.

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

When my mobile rings, I’m sitting, alone, in a bar.

The date with Kirsten went exactly as I knew it would. She simpered, I made nice for an hour or so before finally giving up and ending it, as much for my immediate sanity as for anything else. 

I was right all along. I don’t just want a casual lay, even a regular one, and certainly not for someone like her. Okay, so I can’t have the person I want, but that doesn’t mean I should settle for second best. That’s as unfair to her as it is to me.

As scenes go it wasn’t too bad, even if we did pull a few stares from the surrounding couples littering the bar. Thank god it was still fairly early, because the place wasn’t as packed as it could have been.

In the end she left in a huff, though I have the sneaking suspicion that come the morning she’ll be telling all her friends that she’s the one who ended it. I couldn’t care less, as long as she doesn’t bother me again.

I wish her well, I really do. I’m just not interested.

Nor, however, can I get up the energy required to go home, or to do what I really want to do, and storm round to Sam’s demanding why the hell he doesn’t seem to want to spend time with me any more.

No. Calm restraint is what’s caused for here; otherwise I’m at serious risk of losing him altogether and pulling down the Wrath of God (aka Malone) onto my head in the process.

So I’m propping up the bar, beer in my hand and feeling sorry for myself when ‘The Sweeney’ plays tinnily from my pocket. (What can I say? I love that show. Can’t understand a word they’re saying, but still…)

I reach for the mobile, wondering who it is. If it’s Malone, then the undercover op has taken off, and I’m about to be sent to the back of beyond. A bit of distance from Sam might not be a bad idea, if I’m going to get these feelings under control before it’s too late, but I don’t want to go now that there’s no need to look for Sam anymore. If I thought there was any chance I could get out of it I might be tempted to try, but there isn’t so I don’t bother.

It might conceivably be Kirsten calling up for Round Two, which isn’t very preferable to Malone, but it’s not her either.

Sam’s name flashes up on the screen, and I catch my breath for a second. He thinks I’m out on a date tonight. Why is he calling me?

His first words both rekindle my flickering hope and make me nervous. What, apart from the obvious, could he want to talk about?

And if he does want to talk about us, exactly what does he want to say? That he wants to make wild, passionate love to me all night? (Wishful thinking if I ever heard it. I’ve been getting good at that lately.) That he can’t stand the sight of me any more? (Slightly more likely, perhaps.)

I settle for a non-committal ‘yeah, great’ and when he suggests tomorrow morning, and I tentatively bring it forward to later tonight. I’m not sure I could cope with another night of uncertainty.

“I don’t want to disturb…”

I almost laugh. Disturb what? Me pacing round my apartment alone and miserable all fucking night? Because that’s the highlight of my week, obviously.

We arrange for him to come over about ten and then the connection breaks. Suddenly filled with nervous energy, I quickly finish the last of my beer and slide off the bar stool, heading out to my car and driving home.

He wants to talk to me.

Interesting.

I haven’t the slightest idea what I’m going to do while I wait for the next hour and a half, but I end up doing what I’d have been doing anyway, pacing nervously round the apartment and moving things round in a vague and fairly pointless attempt to tidy up.

The clock trips slowly round the dial, and it seems like an eternity before it’s ten o’clock, and Sam’s ringing on the doorbell.

Moment of truth time.

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

At ten to ten, I'm already parked outside Chris' flat. His car's there and the lights are on. 

Maybe Kirsten's in there, though, and she'll take a taxi home or something. 

Oh Jesus, or worse. Maybe he's expecting me to go in, apologise profusely and go again while she's waiting in the bedroom, finding it all a huge joke.

No, Chris wouldn't do that.

Ten minutes tick by, second by second, and no bimboesque figure emerges. I can't wait any longer, whether she's in there waiting for the show or not.

Schooling my expression and brain to remain calm – I'm a CI5 agent, I tell myself sternly, not an adolescent with rampaging hormones – I ring the bell and he opens the door within seconds.

Good sign, bad sign? 

His expression is pleasant, open, but unless he's nose to nose with Malone or the Met. it usually is.

"Hi," he says, and I try to take my eyes off the cream sweater I like so much, only to find my eyes drawn downwards to the slim hips and soft black denim. 

"Hi."

I'm standing there awkwardly, and he does the dimpled grin, which does nothing for my good intentions. I persuade my legs to move forward, though, and make it as far as an armchair.

"Drink?" he asks, then chuckles. "I got alcohol-free beer. Thought maybe it would at least be a little more fun than water or juice."

He bought alcohol-free beer in? For me? I stare at him, then find my voice to agree weakly only to lose it again as he fetches it through, plus glasses. So much ceremony is so unlike Chris that it must mean some sort of solemn occasion. Like 'been fun, Curtis, thanks and goodbye.'

I have trouble keeping my hands steady as I pick up a glass and try to persuade myself that he's not really a bit awkward too. Well, he might be. You don't just end two years of working as closely as we've been without a few memories, maybe.

"Cheers," he says. "So?"

"So?"

"You wanted to talk," he says gently, and I force myself to meet his eyes. They're not quite as cold as I expected, not that grey that accompanies his anger, but the soft blue that could melt me. In fact they're not cold at all. Even his expression is more one of concern than anything else.

Get a grip, Curtis.

"I – came to apologise."

He raises one eyebrow slightly, but isn't letting me off the hook.

"Oh, c'mon, Chris. Don't make it more difficult for me." I say this without thinking, and get a lopsided grin.

"And you haven't been making it difficult for me?"

"I – suppose I have," I admit. 

"Uh-huh." 

That doesn't tell me much.

"You probably thought I'd gone mad, right?" I manage a rather shaky smile. "It was just – "

"Just what?"

"Chris… "

He's sitting there opposite me, and all my carefully prepared words have flown out of the window, because I want him so much and can't have him. 

It's like a knife in my heart, suddenly, and I have to get this over with and get out of here before I start behaving more childishly than ever.

I take a deep breath.

"I shouldn't have kissed you. It was unfair, uncalled-for and…"

"And?"

"I'm sorry. That's all I wanted to say. And that it'll never happen again."

"Oh," he says. "Because it was a mistake? Like, you didn't feel anything?"

I have to lie. 

No, I can't lie. 

"It's not… I mean I did – feel something. A lot, Chris, but it was just –"

"Just what?"

Oh for the love of God, Keel, stop this. 

"Look, I happen to like men as well as women, is that what you're waiting for?" It comes out angrily, and I find myself gripping the beer glass so hard it's a wonder it doesn't shatter.

"I figured," Chris says softly. "But it was just what? I was fighting you off? Disgusted?"

"Well no, but…"

"I wasn't disgusted, Sam. Just surprised, maybe. Because –"

It's my turn to cut him off.

"Because I finally threw my better judgement to the winds and made you wonder what the hell I was playing at."

"Better judgement? " he repeats, nodding slowly. "But you did want to kiss me."

"Yes." Not much point in hiding it.

"So it didn't just occur to you for the first time that night?"

"No." 

Go on, Keel. Twist the knife a bit harder.

"And now you've come to say it was all a mistake, right?"

"I apologised," I half-whisper, almost pleading now. "What else can I say, Chris?

"Maybe you shouldn't say anything," he says, frowning slightly.

"I'll just go then." I can't trust myself to stay here any longer, and move to get out of my seat. Chris, I think, is following suit but then his face is suddenly an inch from mine.

His eyes are locked into mine, and I almost flinch, expecting him to hit me or something. Except there's something like pain in them now.

"Do you want to go, Sam?" 

Oh God, there's so much more I want to say, but what's the point?

"No. But it would be better…"

"Would it? Or would this be better?"

He reaches a hand around the back of my neck, very gently, and pulls my head forward.

And kisses me. 

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

Sam was obviously nervous when he arrived, and spent the first few minutes stammering, trying, (I think) to coat his words in gentle terms. I’m still expecting him to break up our partnership completely, and when he starts apologising for kissing me I think my fears are being confirmed, and feel like my heart is breaking all over again. 

I’m suddenly very glad that I’m already sitting down, because I can feel myself trembling ever so slightly. At least this way I can hide it, keep some semblance of dignity until it’s over and he leaves.

I try and keep things neutral, giving nothing away, and yet someone has other ideas because I’m suddenly asking questions back.

“Because it was a mistake? Like, you didn’t feel anything?”

I have to know. Good or bad, I need to know exactly how he feels before I bury these feelings once and for all.

"It's not… I mean I did – feel something. A lot, Chris, but it was just –"

“Just what?”

Sam smothers a sigh, and I can tell that he doesn’t find this easy. I don’t like pushing him like this, but I have to know. I deserve answers as much as he does.

And we need to have it out once and for all. Otherwise this is going to follow us around like a shadow for as long as we work together.

“Look, I happen to like men as well as women, is that what you’re waiting for?”

He’s angry, and I have to fight to keep my voice calm. Both of us getting angry won’t help but I’m irritated. He sounds as if he’s expecting me to recoil in shock and disgust at the idea that he might actually be bisexual. Does he really think that little of me?

Then again I think, slightly abashed, I’ve been thinking the same thing about him on and off over the past few weeks. Maybe we’re both just paranoid. 

I try to reassure him, make him see that I’m interested in him and not disgusted, but he interrupts me.

“Because I finally threw my better judgement to the winds and made you wonder what the hell I was playing at.”

My heart jumps at that. Finally? Does he mean…? More questions, trying to get him to say it. I daren’t risk making assumptions – not yet.

“Better judgement? But you did want to kiss me.”

“Yes.” The relief I feel is overwhelming, and I resist the urge to cheer. Even so I ask a few more questions, some niggling sense of insecurity needing to double check even now.

“I apologised,” he whispers, and the desperation in his voice tugs straight at my heart. Decision made, I tell him not to say anything more, and he gets up to leave, obviously misinterpreting my intentions.

Part of me is embarrassed, and worried at how pale he looks, at the pain in his eyes, but the other is rejoicing. I wasn’t imagining things, and I’m not crazy.

He wants me.

Nothing else matters.

I stop him from leaving, and before I can talk myself out of it lean forward and pull him towards me.

I kiss him.

I can feel him stiffen in surprise beneath my hands, obviously not expecting this, before with a soft whimper he pulls us even closer. 

The first touch washes away all the pain and uncertainty of the last few weeks, and I can feel everything falling back into place. He’s not avoiding me. He wants me. 

Thank God.

I revel in the fact that, finally, we’re together. I hold him tightly, exploring his mouth and trying to absorb every each of him. 

It’s finally real.

Suddenly Sam stills and pushes me slightly away from him. I glance up in time to see that his eyes are thick with desire, before he blinks and forces himself back under control again.

“No, Chris…stop,” he protests, though he makes no effort to release his grip on my shoulders. “We can’t.”

I meet his pained gaze, still relishing the feel of him beneath my hands.

“This is a bad idea Chris,” he continues.

“No it’s not,” I reply. For perhaps the first time since this whole thing began, I’m perfectly calm. “Forget CI5, forget everything else, Sam. This is about you and me. Do you want to take this further?”

“Well of course I do, but…”

I put my finger to his lips, gently silencing him. “No buts, Sam. This is no one’s business but ours. If you don’t want to go any further, then walk out that door and we can go back to trying to pretend that none of this ever happened. But if you want this, and I know I do,” I put particular stress on that one word, “then why shouldn’t we?”

Sam hesitates again briefly, before breaking into a dazzling smile and pushing me gently back against the sofa. “No reason at all,” he whispers, claiming my lips with his own.

Half beneath him, I run my hands through his hair, lips still locked together as he slides a hand beneath my sweater. The feel of his hand against bare flesh makes me gasp slightly, and it feels like an electric bolt runs through my body heading straight to my groin.

He breaks the kiss and I bite back an instinctive moan of protest, transferring my hands to his back. I can feel the muscles flexing beneath his shirt, and he glances up at me to smile briefly before lowering his head down to my neck, nipping softly at the skin there as I groan and my eyes drift shut.

He’s driving me crazy, and I can’t believe I ever had my doubts about this.

 

~*~*~

 

Sam

My heart's beating so frantically now I hardly even dare look at Chris, but I am aware we're still holding hands as we move into his bedroom.

Without bidding my mind goes back to seeing this room during one of our very first jobs, and realising he was in the throes of a nightmare. I suppose I already cared then – wanted to reach out and stroke the pain away without even knowing what it was about. Just as I'd instinctively grabbed his hand as he was about to sit in a rigged car earlier the same day. 

His hand is strong, calloused like mine, and at the moment the feel of it is still unfamiliar. The kissing, though, felt completely right and as though we'd been doing it in our minds for years. Maybe we have. 

"So," he says shakily, looking from me to the bed and back to me again. 

"So," I murmur, frightened and exhilarated at the same time. 

"Sam… I'm gonna make a fool of myself." He grimaces.

He's changed his mind.

"Look, we don't have to…"

"No way," he half-growls. "No way are we backing out again, Sam. Not now. I'm – I wanna… oh, Jesus –"

He pulls me close again now, and I find myself running my hands over his back, letting them stray lower.

"What is it, Chris? Too fast?"

"Not fast enough," he says, voice strangled as he reciprocates, sending fire through my groin. "But I guess we should – maybe – or rather you should know I'm not – well I've never…"

"Been with a man," I finish for him, sliding a hand under his sweater. That's occurred to me, and as aroused as I'm getting I'm trying to take this slowly, carefully.

"Wrong," he whispers, and I find my eyebrows raising as I meet candid eyes again. He's actually blushing, which is endearing, but I'm busy being amazed.

"It wasn't – much," he admits. "Once. Just one guy, a long time ago… when I was a kid. I mean we only…"

Aha. Interesting. I let my hand slide down to his stomach and feel the sharply indrawn breath.

"I get you. And you liked it?" I murmur.

"Yeah," he grinned. "But this is better."

My fingers reach a nipple, now, and he shivers.

"We didn't do much, but it's OK if you…"

"Let's just take it step by step," I tell him. "Slowly. Whatever you're comfortable with."

He's breathing heavily, and I think he's extremely comfortable with what's happening right now. What's more, his own hands are starting to pull at my belt.

Undressing doesn't take long after that. We're both clumsy but the entire process is punctuated by kisses and Chris moans slightly as I finally reach the boxers and let my hand skim over the fly and then to the elastic, looking at his face for an answer.

Rather than speaking, he simply hooks both hands into the waistband of my own, then his, and we're standing there naked. Both erect. 

The next kiss presses our bodies together and suddenly we're gasping at the contact, skin against skin, hardness against hardness. His hand's reaching to me as I propel him towards the bed, pushing him gently down onto it and lying beside him, seeing more lust than diffidence there now.

"Slowly, huh?" he says.

"Slowly," I insist, drinking in the sight of him, slim and supple and, unbelievably, lying naked and extremely aroused beside me. "Lie back."

He obeys, instantly, and my hand returns to the nipple, followed by my mouth. My erection's just out of his reach, and he makes a small exasperated noise that I quell by sliding my fingers up the inside of his thigh towards my target, achieving a fully-fledged moan for that.

I don't know what he's expecting, nor what 'not much' really means, but I daren't go too far too quickly. Not that I'm not craving the feel of him inside me, or vice-versa, but some innate conviction that I want a courtship more than a fuck stops me from even suggesting it. 

I think the time for that will come, somehow, judging but the way he's reacting to my caresses with such enthusiasm, but right now what I want to do most is to give him pleasure. Something I'm pretty sure he'll like.

He cries out when I let the tip of my tongue touch him, bucking upwards. So I settle over him, still caressing the line of hair down his stomach, and slowly sink my mouth down on him. 

He's trembling, but not with fear, making incoherent noises and gripping the sheets with one hand.

"Sam…"

I start to raise my head, worried, but he pushes it back peremptorily.

"Lemme… touch you. Please."

I shift, just as anxious for that as he is for me to carry on, and let out a gasp of my own as his fingers are tentative for a second and then are around me, firm and yet gentle, his movements sensuous, insistent.

Much as I want this to last, we're too fired up, too desperate for release, and I can feel him getting closer by the second. 

"Oh God," his voice is choked, and his hips are rocking as I speed up the pace despite myself, feeling my own excitement growing unbearably. "Oh Jesus, Sam…"

His fingers grip me hard suddenly, and he's jerking as if to pull away from my mouth but that's the last thing I want. I make soothing movements with the hand that's still caressing his thighs and continue until he tenses, crying out, his hand grasping my hair and pulling me down.

I know I'm close myself, and feeling him climax excites me even more. I have trouble holding it even until his spasms have stopped and I release him. 

I vaguely hear his voice, know he's still out of breath but he's telling me to let him - to let myself go – I don't know. I just know that the feel of his hand and the taste of him are more than enough to know I'm beyond the point of no return… and then it's too late for anything but to let it crash over me. I can hear myself sobbing out his name, too, and don't care. 

When it's over, I'm aware of a pair of strong arms pulling me back up the bed towards him. He doesn't speak for a moment or two and I try to find some words myself.

"Hey," he whispers eventually. 

"Yeah?" My breathing's still ragged, and I can see his eyes are shining.

"Guess I don't need to tell you it was… the best."

I reach up and stroke his face, making my answer a kiss, but Chris being Chris he's got more to say.

"But you – hell, Sam, you shoulda let me…"

"Next time," I say almost without thinking.

"Oh yeah? I kinda thought you'd want… well…"

"To take things a bit further? Everything in time, Chris."

"Uh-huh." This satisfies him for a minute or two, and what satisfies me to say the least is that he lies there running his fingers through my hair. Something I've always fantasised about, but it's actually happening.

"Sam?" 

Here we go again. Am I going to be asked for a run-down of *exactly* what next time is going to bring?

"Look, Chris, if you don't want to – well – I mean it's okay."

"Quit worrying about that, buddy, it'll be just fine. And yeah, I want to. I'll just follow the leader and we'll take it as it comes. I was just gonna say we wasted a whole lot of time over this."

I chuckle. So does my lover. Yes, my lover at long last who's still running his hands over me, making me want to purr.

"We'll make up for it," I murmur, letting my hands do some stroking of their own. I feel like I'll never get enough of him.

"Good," he says, basking in obvious satisfaction again now. "Like when we've had some shuteye?"

"You wouldn't be the insatiable type would you, Keel?"

"I think I might be, yeah. Serves you right for being so goddamn sexy, Curtis."

I can feel myself grinning again, and that turns into another wave of pleasure as Chris snuggles closer, taking a good proportion of the duvet with him.

I don't know what makes me say it, but I do. Because the idea of more of lovemaking is definitely a most interesting prospect, to start with, and Chris' obvious enthusiasm for activities of the more adventurous kind is beyond my wildest expectations.

"You ain't seen nuthin' yet, baby," I tell him in my worst American accent.

"Counting on it," he sighs happily, giving another tug. "Feels good, this."

It would do. He has nine-tenths of the damned bedclothes now, but he looks like a happy kid so I admit defeat and just lie there watching him for a while.

"You gonna sleep or lie there looking pleased with yourself all night?" he enquires after a while. "I'm bushed. And you'll need energy for when we wake up."

"I was just enjoying the view," I tell him. "And deciding you definitely are insatiable."

"Better get used to it," he says airily. "Both the view and the insatiable. Do I get a goodnight kiss at least?"

He gets several, and eventually I can feel myself drifting off, happier than I can ever remember. There's a stray edge of duvet over me but most importantly, Chris is pressed tightly into me, shifting slightly and grunting with evident pleasure as I curl an arm over one slim hip.

Oh yes, I could most definitely get used to this.

 

~*~*~

 

Chris

We both sleep soundly, and when I wake up our legs are entwined together in the duvet, and my head is resting on Sam’s chest.

I feel more content than I have in a long time.

Sam is still asleep, and I make no effort to move, or get up, content instead just to drift, listening to his heart beating beneath me.

Everything I want is right here. 

Last night was incredible, and not least because it was Sam I was sharing a bed with. The sensations, the desire running through me were stronger than they’ve been since… well, a long time ago, and part of me still can’t quite believe it’s happened.

Yet strangely, it also feels as if we’ve been together forever.

He looks so peaceful lying next to me, and his expression is soft, missing all the cares and worry lines he normally shows when awake. Everything is just perfect.

I drift in and out of sleep for a while, contented, and the next time I really take notice of anything Sam is shifting beneath me.

He opens his eyes, blinks slowly, and I drop a kiss on his forehead.

“Hey,” I greet him softly, and he smiles back at me.

“Morning,” he replies, and even in those two words I can see that there’s none of the awkwardness often present after the first time you sleep with someone.

Not that we actually *did* sleep together, but there’s plenty of time for that.

Sighing in contentment I lean my head back down on his chest, and he brings a hand up and rests it in my hair. I resist the temptation to purr.

“Did you sleep alright?” he asks.

“Wonderful.”

He chuckles and pulls me up into a kiss. In a contrast to last night we take our time, starting to get to know every inch of each other’s bodies. I find myself drawn to the barely healed scar on his side – a new souvenir to add to the collection already covering his body. We both have our fair share of battle scars, but this isn’t the time to dwell on them. Because they’re all remnants of battles we’ve survived, and as such don’t matter any more. 

Only the future matters now.

Before we can move on to more interesting pursuits, the phone rings. Sam groans and lets go of me, as I reluctantly reach for the handset.

“Keel,” I snap, irritated.

“Mr. Keel,” Malone’s voice greets me. “I want you packed and at headquarters as soon as possible. Your flight leaves for Israel in three hours, and we’ve a lot to discuss.”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this.

“Sir?” My confusion at what he’s saying could, I suppose, be caused by the fact that Sam is still running a hand up and down my leg, trying to listen to the other end of the conversation.

“Your undercover role in Israel,” Malone repeats with a sigh. “It begins today, now move it man!”

The phone goes dead and I collapse back on to the bed with a groan, still holding the handset. Fucking typical. Just when Sam and I finally sort things out, I get sent half way across the bloody world.

“Chris?” Sam questions, looking slightly concerned.

“The Israeli job,” I explain, then seeing his confusion add, “The undercover role I’ve been training for. I have to leave the country, Sam.”

“When?” he asks in alarm.

“Today.”

I lean over to put the handset onto the bedside table, but Sam’s hand on my arm stops me before I get there.

“What’s this about, Chris?” he asks, his voice flat. “What exactly are you and Harley doing?”

I hesitate, not sure whether to answer him. CI5 rules say no, he doesn’t need to know, but this is Sam. He’s my partner, and I can tell that he’s worried. So I tell him.

“We’re going after Khayal.”

 

~*~*~

 

(This fic was never completed and likely never will be now, but for completeness sake I thought I'd put it online anyway).


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